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THE ART OF 
THE STORY-TELLER 



^ 






THE ART OF THE 
STORY-TELLER 



BY 



MARIE L. SHEDLOCK 




D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK 1915 



A-Zj 






Copyright, 1915. by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 






Printed in the United States of America 

C)CI,A414497 

NOV 10 1915 



NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

My thanks are due to : Mrs. Josephine Dodge 
Daskam Bacon, for permission to use an extract from 
"The Madness of Philip," and to her pubHshers, 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 

To Messrs. Houghton MifSin, for permission to use 
extract from "Thou Shalt Not Preach," by Mr. John 
Burroughs. 

To Messrs. Macmillan and Co., for permission to 
use "Milking Time," of Miss Rossetti. 

To Mrs. William Sharp, for permission to use 
passage from "The Divine Adventure," by "Fiona 
MacLeod. 

To Miss Ethel Clifford, for permission to use the 
poem of "The Child." 

To Mr, James Whitcomb Riley and the Bobbs 
Merrill Co., for permission to use "The Treasure of 
the Wise Man." 

To Professor Ker, for permission to quote from 
"Sturla the Historian." 

To Mr. John Russell, for permission to print in 
full, "A Saga." 

To Messrs. Longmans, Green, and Co., for permis- 
sion to use "The Two Frogs," from the Violet Fairy 
Book, and "To Your Good Health," from the Crim- 
son Fairy Book. 

To Mr. Heinemann and Lady Glenconner, for per- 



NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

mission to reprint "The Water Nixie," by Pamela 
Tennant, from "The Children and the Pictures." 

To Mr. Maurice Baring and the Editor of The 
Morning Post, for permission to reprint "The Blue 
Rose" from The Morning Post. 

To Dr. Walter Rouse and Mr. J. M. Dent, for 
permission to reprint from "The Talking Thrush" 
the story of "The Wise Old Shepherd." 

To Rev. R. L. Gales, for permission to use the 
article on "Nursery Rhymes" from the Nation. 

To Mr. Edmund Gosse, for permission to use ex- 
tracts from "Father and Son." 

To Messrs. Chatto & Windus, for permission to 
use "Essay on Child's Play" (from Virginihus 
Puerisque) and other papers. 

To Mr. George Allen & Co., for permission to use 
"Ballad for a Boy," by W. Cory, from "lonica." 

To Professor Bradley, for permission to quote from 
his essay on "Poetry and Life." 

To Mr. P. A. Barnett, for permission to quote from 
"The Commonsense of Education." 

To Mr. James Stephens, for permission to reprint 
"The Man and the Boy." 

To Mr. Harold Barnes, for permission to use ver- 
sion of "The Proud Cock." 

To Mrs. Arnold Glover, for permission to print 
two of her stories. 

To Miss Emille Poulson, for permission to use her 
translation of Bjornsen's poem. 

To George Routledge & Son, for permission to use 
stories from "Eastern Stories and Fables." 

vi 



NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

To Mrs. W. K. Clifford, for permission to quote 
from "Very Short Stories." 

To Mr. W. Jenkyn Thomas and Mr. Fisher Unwin, 
for permission to use "Arthur in the Cave" from the 
Welsh Fairy Book. 



Vll 



PREFACE 

Some day we shall have a science of education 
comparable to the science of medicine ; but even when 
that day arrives the art of education will still remain 
the inspiration and the guide of all wise teachers. 
The laws that regulate our physical and mental de- 
velopment will be reduced to order; but the im- 
pulses which lead each new generation to play its 
way into possession of all that is best in life will still 
have to be interpreted for us by the artists who, with 
the wisdom of years, have not lost the direct vision 
of children. 

Some years ago I heard Miss Shedlock tell stories 
in England. Her fine sense of literary and dramatic 
values, her power in sympathetic interpretation, al- 
ways restrained within the limits of the art she was 
using, and her understanding of educational values, 
based on a wide experience of teaching, all marked 
her as an artist in story-telling. She was equally at 
home in interpreting the subtle blending of wit and 
wisdom in Daudet, the folk lore philosophy of Grimm, 
or the deeper world philosophy and poignant human 
appeal of Hans Christian Andersen. 

Then she came to America and for two or three 
years she taught us the difference between the nightin- 
gale that sings in the tree tops and the artificial bird 
that goes with a spring. Cities like New York, Bos- 

ix 



PREFACE 

ton, Pittsburgh and Chicago listened and heard, if 
sometimes indistinctly, the notes of universal appeal, 
and children saw the Arabian Nights come true. 

Yielding to the appeals of her friends in America 
and England, Miss Shedlock has put together in this 
little book such observations and suggestions on story- 
telling as can be put in words. Those who have the 
artist's spirit will find their sense of values quick- 
ened by her words, and they will be led to escape 
some of the errors into which even the greatest artists 
fall. And even those who tell stories with their 
minds will find in these papers wise generalizations 
and suggestions born of wide experience and ex- 
tended study which will go far towards making even 
an artificial nightingale's song less mechanical. To 
those who know, the book is a revelation of the in- 
timate relation between a child's instincts and the 
finished art of dramatic presentation. To those who 
do not know it will bring echoes of reality. 

Earl Barnes. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 
THE ART OF STORY-TELLING 

CHAPTER PAGE 

L The Difficulties of the Story 3 

II. The Essentials of the Story 23 

III. The Artifices of Story-telling .... 31 

IV. Elements to Avoid in Selection of Ma- 

terial 43 

V. Elements to Seek in the Choice of Ma- 
terial 65 

VI. How TO Obtain and Maintain the Effect 

OF the Story 99 

VII. Questions Asked by Teachers 133 



PART II 

THE STORIES 

Sturla, the Historian 161 

A Saga 165 

t/THE Legend of St. Christopher 168 

Arthur in the Cave 173 

Hafiz, the Stone-Cutter 179 

To Your Good Health 183 

xi 



/ 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

'^The Proud Cock 191 

Snegourka 195 

The Water Nixie 198 

The Blue Rose 204 

The Two Frogs 213 

The Wise Old Shepherd 216 

•*The Folly of Panic 222 

The True Spirit of a Festival Day 225 

Filial Piety 229 

Three Stories from Hans Christian Andersen — 

The Swineherd 233 

The Nightingale 241 

The Princess and the Pea 257 



PART III 

List of Stories and Books Suggested to the 
Story-teller and Books Referred to in the 

List of Stories 259 

List of Stories 261 

Books Suggested to the Story-teller and Books 

Referred to in the List of Stories .... 278 



\ 
• \ 

xii 



INTRODUCTION 

Story-telling is almost the oldest art in the world — 
the first conscious form of literary communication 
In the East it still survives, and it is not an uncom- 
mon thing to see a crowd at a street corner held by 
the simple narration of a story. There are signs in 
the West of a growing interest in this ancient art, 
and we may yet live to see the renaissance of the 
troubadours and the minstrels whose appeal will then 
rival that of the mob orator or itinerant politician. 
One of the surest signs of a belief in the educational 
power of the story is its introduction into the cur- 
riculum of the training-college and the classes of the 
elementary and secondary schools. It is just at the 
time when the imagination is most keen, the mind 
being unhampered by accumulation of facts, that 
stories appeal most vividly and are retained for all 
time. 

It is to be hoped that some day stories will be told 
to school groups only by experts who have devoted 
special time and preparation to the art of telling them. 
It is a great fallacy to suppose that the systematic 
study of story-telling destroys the spontaneity of nar- 
rative. After a long experience, I find the exact con- 
verse to be true, namely, that it is only when one has 
overcome the mechanical difficulties that one can "let 
one's self go" in the dramatic interest of the story. 

xiii 



INTRODUCTION 

By the expert story-teller I do not mean the pro- 
fessional elocutionist. The name, wrongly enough, 
has become associated in the mind of the public with 
persons who beat their breast, tear their hair, and 
declaim blood-curdling episodes. A decade or more 
ago, the drawing-room reciter was of this type, and 
was rapidly becoming the bugbear of social gather- 
ings. The difference between the stilted reciter and 
the simple story-teller is perhaps best illustrated by 
an episode in Hans Christian Andersen's immortal 
"Story of the Nightingale." The real Nightingale 
and the artificial Nightingale have been bidden by 
the Emperor to unite their forces and to sing a duet 
at a Court function. The duet turns out most dis- 
astrously, and while the artificial Nightingale is sing- 
ing his one solo for the thirty-third time, the real 
Nightingale flies out of the window back to the green 
wood — a true artist, instinctively choosing his right 
atmosphere. But the bandmaster — symbol of the 
pompous pedagogue — in trying to soothe the outraged 
feelings of the courtiers, says, "Because, you see. 
Ladies and Gentlemen, and, above all. Your Imperial 
Majesty, with the real nightingale you never can tell 
what you will hear, but in the artificial nightingale 
everything is decided beforehand. So it is, and so 
it must remain. It cannot be otherwise." 

And as in the case of the two nightingales, so it is 
with the stilted reciter and the simple narrator : one 
is busy displaying the machinery, showing "how the 
tunes go" ; the other is anxious to conceal the art. 
Simplicity should be the keynote of story-telling, but 
(and here the comparison with the nightingale breaks 

xiv 



INTRODUCTION 

down) it is a simplicity which comes after much train- 
ing in self-control, and much hard work in overcom- 
ing the difficulties which beset the presentation. 

I do not mean that there are not born story-tellers 
who could hold an audience without preparation, but 
they are so rare in number that we can afford to 
neglect them in our general consideration, for this 
work is dedicated to the average story-tellers anx- 
ious to make the best use of their dramatic ability, 
and it is to them that I present my plea for special 
study and preparation before telling a story to a 
group of children — that is, if they wish for the far- 
reaching effects I shall speak of later on. Only the 
preparation must be of a much less stereotyped na- 
ture than that by which the ordinary reciters are 
trained for their career. 

Some years ago, when I was in America, I was 
asked to put into the form of lectures my views as 
to the educational value of telling stories. A sudden 
inspiration seized me. I began to cherish a dream 
of long hours to be spent in the British Museum, 
the Congressional Library in Washington and the 
Public Library in Boston — and this is the only por- 
tion of the dream which has been realized. I planned 
an elaborate scheme of research work which was to 
result in a magnificent (if musty) philological trea- 
tise. I thought of trying to discover by long and 
patient researches what species of lullaby were 
crooned by Egyptian mothers to their babes, and 
what were the elementary dramatic poems in vogue 
among Assyrian nursemaids which were the proto- 
types of "Little Jack Horner," "Dickory, Dickory 

XV 



INTRODUCTION 

Dock" and other nursery classics. I intended to fol- 
low up the study of these ancient documents by mak- 
ing an appendix of modern variants, showing what 
progress we had made — if any — among modern na- 
tions. 

But there came to me suddenly one day the re- 
membrance of a scene from Racine's "Plaideurs," 
in which the counsel for the defence, eager to show 
how fundamental his knowledge, begins his speech: 

"Before the Creation of the World"— And the 
Judge (with a touch of weariness tempered by hu- 
mor) suggests: 

"Let us pass on to the Deluge." 

And thus I, too, have "passed on to the Deluge." 
I have abandoned an account of the origin and past 
of stories which at best would only have displayed a 
little recently acquired book knowledge. When I 
thought of the number of scholars who could treat 
this part of the question infinitely better than myself, 
I realized how much wiser it would be — ^though the 
task is more humdrum — to deal with the present 
possibilities of story-telling for our generation of 
parents and teachers. 

My objects in urging the use of stories in the edu- 
cation of children are at least fivefold: 

First, to give them dramatic joy, for which they 
have a natural craving; to develop a sense of humor, 
which is really a sense of proportion; to correct cer- 
tain tendencies by showing the consequences in the 
career of the hero in the story [Of this motive the 
children must be quite unconscious and there should 
be no didactic emphasis] ; to present by means of 

xvi 



INTRODUCTION 

example, not precept, such ideals as will sooner or 
later be translated into action ; and finally, to de- 
velop the imagination, which really includes all the 
other points. 

But the art of story-telling appeals not only to the 
educational world and to parents as parents, but also 
to a wider public interested in the subject from a 
purely human point of view. 

In contrast to the lofty scheme I had originally 
proposed to myself, I now simply place before all 
those who are interested in the art of story-telling in 
any form the practical experiences I have had in 
my travels in America and England. 

I hope that my readers may profit by my errors, 
improve on my methods, and thus help to bring about 
the revival of an almost lost art. 

In Sir Philip Sydney's "Defence of Poesie" we 
find these words: 

"Forsooth he cometh to you with a tale, which 
holdeth children from play, and old men from the 
chimney-corner, and pretending no more, doth intend 
the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue 
even as the child is often brought to take most Whole- 
some things by hiding them in such other as have 
a pleasant taste." 

Marie L. Shedlock, 

London. 



PART I 
THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 



CHAPTER I 
THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

I propose to deal in this chapter with the diffi- 
culties or dangers which beset the path of the story- 
teller, because, until we have overcome these, we 
cannot hope for the finished and artistic presentation 
which is to bring out the full value of the story. 

The difficulties are many, and yet they ought not 
to discourage the would-be narrators, but only show 
them how all-important is the preparation for the 
story, if it is to have the desired effect. 

I propose to illustrate by concrete examples, 
thereby serving a twofold purpose : one to fix the 
subject more clearly in the mind of the student, the 
other to use the art of story-telling to explain itself. 

I have chosen one or two instances from my own 
personal experience. The grave mistakes made in 
my own case may serve as a warning to others who 
will find, however, that experience is the best 
teacher. For positive work, in the long run, we 
generally find out our own method. On the negative 
side, however, it is useful to have certain pitfalls 
pointed out to us, in order that we may save time 

3 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

by avoiding them. It is for this reason that I sound 
a note of warning. 

I . There is the danger of side issues. An inex- 
perienced story-teller is exposed to the temptation 
of breaking off from the main dramatic interest in 
a short exciting story in order to introduce a side 
issue which is often interesting and helpful but 
which must be left for a longer and less dramatic 
story. If the interest turns on some dramatic mo- 
ment, the action must be quick and uninterrupted, or 
it will lose half its effect. 

I had been telling a class of young children the 
story of Polyphemus and Ulysses, and just at the 
most dramatic moment in the story some impulse 
for which I cannot account prompted me to go off 
on a side issue to describe the personal appearance 
of Ulysses. 

The children were visibly bored, but with polite 
indifference they listened to my elaborate descrip- 
tion of the hero. If I had given them an actual de- 
scription from Homer, I believe that the strength of, 
the language would have appealed to their imagina- 
tion (all the more strongly because they might not 
have understood the individual words) and have, 
lessened their disappointment at the dramatic issue 
being postponed ; but I trusted to my own lame ver- 
bal efforts, and signally failed. Attention flagged, 
fidgeting began, the atmosphere was rapidly becom- 
ing spoiled in spite of the patience and toleration 

4 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

still shown by the children. At last, however, one 
little girl in the front row, as spokeswoman for the 
class, suddenly said : 'Tf you please, before you go 
any further, do you mind telling us whether, after 
all, that Poly . . . [slight pause] . . . that . . . 
[final attempt] . . . Polyanthus died?" 

Now, the remembrance of this question has been 
of extreme use to me in my career as a story-teller. 
I have realized that in a short dramatic story the 
mind of the listeners must be set at ease with regard 
to the ultimate fate of the special Polyanthus who 
takes the center of the stage. 

I remember, too, the despair of a little boy at a 
dramatic representation of "Little Red Riding- 
Hood," when that little person delayed the thrilling 
catastrophe with the Wolf, by singing a pleasant 
song on her way through the wood. "Oh, why," 
said the little boy, "does she not get on?" And I 
quite shared his impatience. 

This warning is necessary only in connection with 
the short dramatic narrative. There are occasions 
when we can well afford to offer short descriptions 
for the sake of literary style, and for the purpose of 
enlarging the vocabulary of the child. I have found, 
however, in these cases, it is well to take the children 
into your confidence, warning them that they are to 
expect nothing particularly exciting in the way of 
dramatic event. They will then settle down with 
a freer mind (though the mood may include a touch 

5 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

of resignation) to the description you are about to 
offer them. 

2. Altering the story to suit special occasions is 
done sometimes from extreme conscientiousness, 
sometimes from sheer ignorance of the ways of chil- 
dren. It is the desire to protect them from knowl- 
edge which they already possess and with which 
they, equally conscientious, are apt to "turn and 
rend" the narrator, I remember once when I was 
telling the story of the Siege of Troy to very young 
children, I suddenly felt anxious lest there should 
be anything in the story of the rape of Helen not al- 
together suitable for the average age of the class, 
namely, nine years. I threw, therefore, a domestic 
coloring over the whole subject and presented an 
imaginary conversation between Paris and Helen, 
in which Paris tried to persuade Helen that she was 
a strong-minded woman thrown away on a limited 
society in Sparta, and that she should come away 
and visit some of the institutions of the world with 
him, which would doubtless prove a mutually in- 
structive journey.^ I theU gave the children the view 
taken by Herodotus that Helen never went to Troy, 
but was detained in Egypt. The children were much 
thrilled by the story, and responded most eagerly 
when, in my inexperience, I invited them to repro- 

^I venture to hope (at this long distance of years) that my 
language in telling the story was more simple than appears 
from this account, 

6 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

duce in writing for the next day the story I had just 
told them. 

A small child presented me, as you will see, with 
the ethical problem from which I had so laboriously 
protected her. The essay ran : 

Once upon a time the King of Troy's son was called 
Paris. And he went over to Greace to see what it was 
like. And here he saw the beautiful Helent-r^ and like- 
wise her husband Menela3;MJ. And one day, Menela- 
yus went out hunting, and left Paris and Helener alone, 
and Paris said : "Do you not feel did in this palis?" ^ And 
Helener said : "I feel very dull in this pallice," ^ and Paris 
said : "Come away and see the world with me." So they 
sliped off together, and they came to the King of Egypt, 
and he said: "Who is the young lady"? So Paris told 
him. "But," said the King, "it is not proppcr for you to 
go off with other people's wifes. So Helener shall stop 
here." Paris stamped his foot. When Menelayus got 
home, he stamped his foot. And he called round him all 
his soldiers, and they stood round Troy for eleven years. 
At last they thought it was no use. standing any longer, 
so they built a wooden horse in memory of Helener and 
the Trojans and it was taken into the town. 

Now, the mistake I made in my presentation was 
to lay any particular stress on the reason for elope- 
ment by my careful readjustment, which really 

^ This difiference of spelling in the same essay will be much 
appreciated by those who know how gladly children ofTer an 
orthographical alternative, in hopes that one if not the other 
may satisfy the exigency of the situation. 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

called more attention to the episode than was neces- 
sary for the age of my audience; and evidently 
caused confusion in the minds of some of the chil- 
dren who knew the story in its more accurate origi- 
nal form. 

While traveling in America, I was provided with 
a delightful appendix to this story. I had been tell- 
ing Miss Longfellow and her sister the little girl's 
version of the Siege of Troy, and Mrs. Thorpe made 
the following comment, with the American humor 
the dryness of which adds so much to its value : 

"I never realized before," she said, "how glad the 
Greeks must have been to sit down even inside a 
horse, when they had been standing for eleven 
years." 

3. The danger of introducing unfamiliar words 
is the very opposite danger of the one to which I 
have just alluded; it is the taking for granted that 
children are acquainted with the meaning of certain 
words upon which turns some important point in 
the story. We must not introduce, without at least 
a passing explanation, words which, if not rightly 
understood, would entirely alter the picture we wish 
to present. 

I had once promised to tell stories to an audience 
of Irish peasants, and I should like to state here 
that, though my travels have brought me in touch 
with almost every kind of audience, I have never 
found one where the atmosphere is so "self-pre- 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

pared" as in that of a group of Irish peasants. To 
speak to them, especially on the subject of fairy- 
tales, is like playing on a delicate harp : the response 
is so quick and the sympathy so keen. Of course, 
the subject of fairy-tales is one which is completely 
familiar to them and comes into their everyday life. 
They have a feeling of awe with regard to fairies, 
which is very deep in some parts of Ireland. 

On this particular occasion I had been warned 
by an artist friend who had kindly promised to sing 
songs between the stories, that my audience would 
be of varying age and almost entirely illiterate. 
Many of the older men and women, who could 
neither read nor write, had never been beyond their 
native village. I was warned to be very simple in 
my language and to explain any difficult words 
which might occur in the particular Indian story I 
had chosen for that night, namely, "The Tiger, the 
Jackal and the Brahman." ^ It happened that the 
older portion of the audience had scarcely ever seen 
even pictures of wild animals. I profited by the ad- 
vice and offered a word of explanation with regard 
to the tiger and the jackal. I also explained the 
meaning of the word Brahman — at a proper dis- 
tance, however, lest the audience should class him 
with wild animals. I then went on with my story, 
in the course of which I mentioned a buffalo. In 
spite of the warning I had received, I found it im- 

^ See "List of Stories." 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

possible not to believe that the name of this animal 
would be familiar to any audience. I, therefore, 
went on with the sentence containing this word, and 
ended it thus : "And then the Brahman went a little 
further and met an old buffalo turning a wheel." 

The next day, while walking down the village 
street, I entered into conversation with a thirteen- 
year-old girl who had been in my audience the night 
before and who began at once to repeat in her own 
words the Indian story in question. When she came 
to the particular sentence I have just quoted, I was 
greatly startled to hear her version, which ran thus : 
"And the priest went on a little further, and he met 
another old gentleman pushing a wheelbarrow." I 
stopped her at once, and not being able to identify 
the sentence as part of the story I had told, I ques- 
tioned her a little more closely. I found that the 
word, "buffalo," had evidently conveyed to her mind 
an old "buffer" whose name was "Lo," probably 
taken to be an Indian form of appellation, to be 
treated with tolerance though it might not be Irish 
in sound. Then, not knowing of any wheel more 
familiarly than that attached to a barrow, the young 
narrator completed the picture in her own mind — 
doubtless, a vivid one — but which, one must admit, 
had lost something of the Indian atmosphere which 
I had intended to gather about it. 

4. The danger of claiming cooperation of th-e 
class by means of questions is more serious for the 

10 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

teacher than the child, who rather enjoys the process 
and displays a fatal readiness to give any sort of 
answer if only he can play a part in the conversation. 
If we could in any way depend on the children giving 
the kind of answer we expect, all might go well and 
the danger would be lessened; but children have a 
perpetual way of frustrating our hopes in this di- 
rection, and of landing us in unexpected bypaths 
from which it is not always easy to return to the 
main road without a very violent reaction. As 
illustrative of this, I quote from "The Madness of 
Philip," by Josephine Daskam Bacon, a truly de- 
lightful essay on child psychology in the guise of 
the lightest of stories. 

The scene takes place In a kindergarten, where a 
bold and fearless visitor has undertaken to tell a 
story on the spur of the moment to a group of rest- 
less children. 

She opens thus: 

"Yesterday, children, as I came out of my yard, what 
do you think I saw?" 

The elaborately concealed surprise in store was so ob- 
vious that Marantha rose to the occasion and suggested, 
"an el'phunt." 

"Why, no. Why should I see an elephant in my 
yard? It was not nearly so big as that — it was a lit- 
tle thing." 

"A fish," ventured Eddy Brown, whose eye fell upon 
the aquarium in the corner. The raconteuse smiled pa- 
tiently. 

II 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"Now, how could a fish, a live fish, get into my front 
yard?" 

"A dead fish," says Eddy. 

He had never been known to relinquish voluntarily an 
idea. 

"No; it was a little kitten," said the story-teller de- 
cidedly. "A little white kitten. She was standing right 
near a big puddle of water. Now, what else do you think 
I saw?" 

"Another kitten," suggests Marantha, conservatively. 

"No; it was a big Newfoundland dog. He saw the 
little kitten near the water. Now, cats don't like water, 
do they ? What do they like ?" 

"Mice," said Joseph Zukoffsky abruptly. 

"Well, yes, they do ; but there were no mice in my yard. 
I'm sure you know what I mean. If they don't like water, 
what do they like?" 

"Milk," cried Sarah Fuller confidently. 

"They like a dry place," said Mrs. R. B. Smith. "Now, 
what do you suppose the dog did?" 

It may be that successive failures had disheartened the 
listeners. It may be that the very range of choice pre- 
sented to them and the dog alike dazzled their imagina- 
tion. At all events, they made no answer. 

"Nobody knows what the dog did ?" repeated the story- 
teller encouragingly. "What would you do if you saw a 
little kitten like that?" 

And Philip remarked gloomily: 

"I'd pull its tail." 

"And what do the rest of you think? I hope you are 
not as cruel as that little boy." 

A jealous desire to share Philip's success prompted the 
quick response: 

"I'd pull it too." 

12 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

Now, the reason of the total failure of this story- 
was the inability to draw any real response from the 
children, partly because of the hopeless vagueness 
of the questions, partly because, there being no time 
for reflection, children say the first thing that comes 
into their heads without any reference to their real 
thoughts on the subject. 

I cannot imagine anything less like the enlightened 
methods of the best kindergarten teaching. Had 
Mrs. R. B. Smith been a real, and not a fictional, 
person, it would certainly have been her last appear- 
ance as a raconteuse in this educational institution. 

5, The difficulty of gauging the effect of a story 
upon the audience rises from lack of observation 
and experience; it is the want of these qualities 
which leads to the adoption of such a method as I 
have just presented. We learn in time that want of 
expression on the faces of the audience and want of 
any kind of external response do not always mean 
either lack of interest or attention. There is often 
real interest deep down, but no power, or perhaps 
no wish, to display that interest, which is deliber- 
ately concealed at times so as to protect oneself from 
questions which may be put. 

6. The danger of overillustration. After long 
experience, and after considering the effect pro- 
duced on children when pictures are shown to them 
during the narration, I have come to the conclusion 
that the appeal to the eye and the ear at the same 

13 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

time is of doubtful value, and has, generally speak- 
ing, a distracting effect: the concentration on one 
channel of communication attracts and holds the 
attention more completely. I was confirmed in this 
theory when I addressed an audience of blind peo- 
ple ^ for the first time, and noticed how closely they 
attended, and how much easier it seemed to them 
because they were so completely "undistracted by the 
sights around them." 

I have often suggested to young teachers two ex- 
periments in support of this theory. They are not 
practical experiments, nor could they be repeated 
often with the same audience, but they are intensely 
interesting, and they serve to show the actual effect 
of appealing to one sense at a time. The first of 
these experiments is to take a small group of chil- 
dren and suggest that they should close their eyes 
while you tell them a story. You will then notice 
how much more attention is given to the intonation 
and inflection of the voice. The reason is obvious. 
With nothing to distract the attention, it is concen- 
trated on the only thing offered the listeners, that 
is, sound, to enable them to seize the dramatic in- 
terest of the story. 

We find an example of the dramatic power of the 
voice in its appeal to the imagination in one of the 
tributes brought by an old pupil to Thomas Edward 
Brown, Master at Clifton College : 

^At the Congressional Library in Washington. 
14 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

"My earliest recollection is that his was the most 
vivid teaching I ever received; great width of view 
and poetical, almost passionate, power of present- 
ment. We were reading Fronde's History, and I 
shall never forget how it was Brown's words, 
Brown's voice, not the historian's, that made me feel 
the great democratic function which the monasteries 
performed in England ; the view became alive in his 
mouth." And in another passage : "All set forth 
with such dramatic force and aided by such a splen- 
did voice, left an indelible impression on my mind." ^ 

A second experiment, and a much more subtle 
and diifficult one, is to take the same group of chil- 
dren on another occasion, telling them a story in 
pantomime form, giving them first the briefest out- 
line of the story. In this case it must be of the 
simplest construction, until the children are able, if 
you continue the experiment, to look for something 
more subtle. 

I have never forgotten the marvelous perform- 
ance of a play given in London many years ago en- 
tirely in pantomime form. The play was called 
"L'Enfant Prodigue," and was presented by a com- 
pany of French artists. It would be almost impos- 
sible to exaggerate the strength of that "silent ap- 
peal" to the public. One was so unaccustomed to 
reading meaning and development of character into 
gesture and facial expression that it was really a 

^Letters of T. E. Brown, page 55. 
15 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

revelation to most of those present — certainly to all 
Anglo-Saxons. 

I cannot touch on this subject without admitting 
the enormous dramatic value connected with the cin- 
ematograph. Though it can never take the place of 
an actual performance, whether in story form or on 
the stage, it has a real educational value in its pos- 
sibilities of representation which it is difficult to 
overestimate, and I believe that its introduction into 
the school curriculum, under the strictest supervi- 
sion, will be of extraordinary benefit. The move- 
ment, in its present chaotic condition, and in the 
hands of a commercial management, is more likely 
to stifle than to awaken or stimulate the imagina- 
tion, but the educational world is fully alive to the 
danger, and I am convinced that in the future of the 
movement good will predominate. 

The real value of the cinematograph in connection 
with stories is that it provides the background that 
is wanting to the inner vision of the average child, 
and does not prevent its imagination from filling in 
the details later. For instance, it would be quite 
impossible for the average child to get an idea from 
mere word-painting of the atmosphere of the polar 
regions as represented lately on the film in connec- 
tion with Captain Scott's expedition, but any stories 
told later on about these regions would have an in- 
finitely greater interest. 

There is, however, a real danger in using pictures 
i6 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

to illustrate the story, especially if it be one which 
contains a direct appeal to the imagination of the 
child and one quite distinct from the stories which 
deal with facts, namely, that you force the whole 
audience of children to see the same picture, instead 
of giving each individual child the chance of making 
his own mental picture. That is of far greater joy, 
and of much greater educational value, since by this 
process the child cooperates with you instead of 
having all the work done for him. 

Queyrat, in his work on "La Logique chez I'En- 
fant," quotes Madame Necker de Saussure:^ "To 
children and animals actual objects present them- 
selves, not the terms of their manifestations. For 
them thinking is seeing over again, it is going 
through the sensations that the real object would 
have produced. Everything which goes on within 
them is in the form of pictures, or rather, inanimate 
scenes in which life is partially reproduced. . . . 
Since the child has, as yet, no capacity for abstrac- 
tion, he finds a stimulating power in words and a 
suggestive inspiration which holds him enchanted. 
They awaken vividly colored images, pictures far 
more brilliant than would be called into being by the 
objects themselves." 

Surely, if this be true, we are taking from chil- 
dren that rare power of mental visualization by of- 
fering to their outward vision an actual picture. 

' Page 55. 

17 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

I was struck with the following note by a critic of 
the Outlook, referring to a Japanese play but which 
bears quite directly on the subject in hand. 

"First, we should be inclined to put insistence 
upon appeal by imagination. Nothing is built up by 
lath and canvas ; everything has to be created by the 
poet's speech." 

He alludes to the decoration of one of the scenes 
which consists of three pines, showing what can be 
conjured up in the mind of the spectator. 

Ah, yes. Unfolding now before my eyes 
The views I know : the Forest, River, Sea 
And Mist — the scenes of Ono now expand. 

I have often heard objections raised to this theory 
by teachers dealing with children whose knowledge 
of objects outside their own little limited circle is so 
scanty that words we use without a suspicion that 
they are unfamiliar are really foreign expressions 
to them. Such words as sea, woods, fields, moun- 
tains, would mean nothing to them, unless some ex- 
planation were offered. To these objections I have 
replied that where we are dealing with objects that 
can actually be seen with the bodily eyes, then it is 
quite legitimate to show pictures of those objects 
before you begin the story, so that the distraction 
between the actual and mental presentation may not 
cause confusion; but, as the foregoing example" 
shows, we should endeavor to accustom the children 

i8 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

to seeing much more than the mere objects them- 
selves, and in deahng with abstract quahties we must 
rely solely on the power and choice of words and 
dramatic qualities of presentation, and we need not 
feel anxious if the response is not immediate, nor 
even if it is not quick and eager.^ 

7. The danger of ohscurmg the point of the 
story with too many details is not peculiar to teach- 
ers, nor is it shown only in the narrative form. I 
have often heard really brilliant after-dinner stories 
marred by this defect. One remembers the attempt 
made by Sancho Panza to tell a story to Don 
Quixote. I have always felt. a keen sympathy with 
the latter in his impatience over the recital. 

"In a village of Estramadura there was a shepherd — 
no, I mean a goatherd — which shepherd or goatherd as 
my story says, was called Lope Ruiz — and this Lope Ruiz 
was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, who was 
daughter to a rich herdsman, and this rich herdsman " 

"If this be thy story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou 
wilt not have done these two days. Tell it concisely, like 
a man of sense, or else say no more." 

"I tell it in the manner they tell all stories in my coun- 
try," answered Sancho, "and I cannot tell it otherwise, 
nor ought your Worship to require me to make new cus- 
toms." 

"Tell it as thou wilt, then," said Don Quixote, "since 
it is the will of fate that I should hear it, go on." 

*In further illustration of this point see "When Burbage 
Played," Austen Dobson, and "In the Nursery," Hans An- 
dersen. 

19 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Sancho continued: 

"He looked about him. until he espied a fisherman with 
a boat near him, but so small that it could only hold one 
person and one goat. The fisherman got into the boat and 
carried over one goat ; he returned and carried another ; 
he came back again and carried another. Pray, sir, keep 
an account of the goats which the fisherman is carrying 
over, for if you lose count of a single one, the story ends, 
and it will be impossible to tell a word more. ... I go on, 
then. . . . He returned for another goat, and another, 
and another and another " 

"Suppose them all carried over," said Don Quixote, "or 
thou wilt not have finished carrying them this twelve 
months !" 

"Tell me, how many have passed already?" said Sancho. 

"How should I know ?" answered Don Quixote. 

"See there, now ! Did I not tell thee to keep an exact 
account ? There is an end of the story. I can go no 
further." 

"How can this be ?" said Don Quixote. "Is it so essen- 
tial to the story to know the exact number of goats that 
passed over, that if one error be made the story can pro- 
ceed no further?" 

"Even so," said Sancho Panza. 

8. The danger of overexplanation is fatal to the 
artistic success of any story, but it is even more 
serious in connection with stories told from an 
educational point of view, because it hampers the 
imagination of the listener, and since the develop- 
ment of that faculty is one of our chief aims in 
telling these stories, we must leave free play, we 
must not test the effect, as I have said before, by the 

20 



THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STORY 

material method of asking questions. My own ex- 
perience is that the fewer explanations you offer, 
provided you have been careful with the choice of 
your material and artistic in the presentation, the 
more the child will supplement by his own thinking 
power what is necessary for the understanding of 
the story. 

Queyrat says : "A child has no need of seizing on 
the exact meaning of words ; on the contrary, a cer- 
tain lack of precision seems to stimulate his imagi- 
nation only the more vigorously, since it gives him 
a broader liberty and finner independence." ^ 

9. The danger of lowermg the standard of the 
story in order to appeal to the undeveloped taste of 
the child is a special one. I am alluding here only 
to the story which is presented from the educational 
point of view. There are moments of relaxation in 
a child's life, as in that of an adult, when a lighter 
taste can be gratified. I allude now to the standard 
of story for school purposes. 

There is one development of story-telling which 
seems to have been very little considered, either in 
America or in our own country, namely, the telling 
of stories to old people, and that not only in institu- 
tions or in quiet country villages, but in the heart 
of the busy cities and in the homes of these old peo- 
ple. How often, when the young people are able 
to enjoy outside amusements, the old people, neces- 

^ "Les jeux des enfants," page 16. 
21 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

sarily confined to the chimney-corner and many un- 
able to read much for themselves, might return to 
the joy of their childhood by hearing some of the 
old stories told them in dramatic form. Here is a 
delightful occupation for those of the leisured class 
who have the gift, and a much more effective way of 
capturing attention than the more usual form of 
reading aloud. 

Lady Gregory, in talking to the workhouse folk In 
Ireland, was moved by the strange contrast between 
the poverty of the tellers and the splendors of the 
tale. She says : 

"The stories they love are of quite visionary 
things; of swans that turn into kings' daughters, 
and of castles with crowns over the doors, and of 
lovers' flights on the backs of eagles, and music- 
loving witches, and journeys to the other world, 
and sleeps that last for seven hundred years." 

I fear it is only the Celtic imagination that will 
glory in such romantic material ; but I am sure the 
men and women of the poorhouse are much more 
interested than we are apt to think in stories outside 
the small circle of their Hves. 



CHAPTER II 
THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY 

It would be a truism to suggest that dramatic in- 
stinct and dramatic power of expression are nat- 
urally the first essentials for success in the art of 
story-telling, and that, without these, no story-teller 
would go very far; but I maintain that, even with 
these gifts, no high standard of performance will 
be reached without certain other qualities, among the 
first of which I place apparent simplicity, which is 
really the art of concealing the art. 

I am speaking here of the public story-teller, or 
of the teacher with a group of children, not the 
spontaneous (and most rare) power of telling stories 
at the fireside by some gifted village grandmother, 
such as Beranger gives us in his poem, "Souvenirs 
du Peuple" : 

Mes enfants, dans ce village, 
Suivi de rois, il passa; 
Voila bien longtemps de cela ! 
Je venais d'entrer en menage, 
A pied grimpant le coteau, 
Ou pour voir je m'etais mise. 

23 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

II avait petit chapeau et redingote grise. 
II me dit: Bon jour, ma chere. 
II vous a parle, grand'mere ? 
II vous a parle? 

I am skeptical enough to think that it is not the 
spontaneity of the grandmother but the art of Be- 
ranger which enhances the effect of the story told in 
the poem. 

This intimate form of narration, which is delight- 
ful in its special surroundings, would fail to reach, 
much less hold, a large audience, not because of its 
simplicity, but often because of the want of skill in 
arranging material and of the artistic sense of selec- 
tion which brings the interest to a focus and ar- 
ranges the side lights. In short, the simplicity we 
need for the ordinary purpose is that which comes 
from ease and produces a sense of being able to let 
ourselves go, because we have thought out our ef- 
fects. It is when we translate our instinct into art 
that the story becomes finished and complete. 

I find it necessary to emphasize this point because 
people are apt to confuse simplicity of delivery with 
carelessness of utterance, loose stringing of sen- 
tences of which the only connections seem to be the 
ever-recurring use of "and" and "so," and "er 
. . .", this latter inarticulate sound having done 
more to ruin a story and distract the audience than 
many more glaring errors of dramatic form. 

Real simplicity holds the audience because the 
24 



THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY 

lack of apparent effort in the artist has the most 
comforting effect upon the listener. It is like turn- 
ing from the whirring machinery of process to the 
finished article, which bears no traces of the making 
except the harmony and beauty of the whole, which 
make one realize that the individual parts have re- 
ceived all proper attention. What really brings 
about this apparent simplicity which insures the suc- 
cess of the story? It has been admirably expressed 
in a passage from Henry James' lecture on Balzac : 

"The fault in the artist which amounts most com- 
pletely to a failure of dignity is the absence of sat- 
uration with his idea. When saturation fails, no 
other real presence avails, as when, on the other 
hand, it operates, no failure of method fatally in- 
terferes." 

I now offer two illustrations of the effect of this 
saturation, one to show that the failure of method 
does not prevent successful effect, the other to show 
that when it is combined with the necessary secon- 
dary qualities the perfection of art is reached. 

In illustration of the first point, I recall an experi- 
ence in the north of England when the head mistress 
of an elementary school asked me to hear a young, 
inexperienced girl tell a story to a group of very 
small children. 

When she began, I felt somewhat hopeless, be- 
cause of the complete failure of method. She 
seemed to have all the faults most damaging to the 

25 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

success of a speaker. Her voice was harsh, her 
gestures awkward, her manner was restless and 
melodramatic; but, as she went on I soon began to 
discount all these faults and, in truth, I soon forgot 
about them, for so absorbed was she in her story, so 
saturated with her subject, that she quickly com- 
municated her own interest to her audience, and the 
children were absolutely spellbound. 

The other illustration is connected with a mem- 
orable peep behind the stage, when the late M. 
Coquelin had invited me to see him in the greenroom 
between the first and second acts of "L'Abbe Con- 
stantin," one of the plays given during his last sea- 
son in London, the year before his death. The last 
time I had met M. Coquelin was at a dinner party, 
where I had been dazzled by the brilliant conversa- 
tion of this great artist in the role of a man of the 
world. But on this occasion I met the simple, kindly 
priest, so absorbed in his role that he inspired me 
with the wish to offer a donation for his poor, and, 
on taking leave, to ask for his blessing for myself. 
While talking to him, I had felt puzzled. It was only 
when I had left him that I realized what had hap- 
pened, namely, that he was too thoroughly saturated 
with his subject to be able to drop his role during the 
interval, in order to assume the more ordinary one of 
host and man of the world. 

Now, it is this spirit I would wish to inculcate into 
the would-be story-tellers. H they would apply 

26 



THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY 

themselves in this manner to their work, it would 
bring about a revolution in the art of presentation, 
that is, in the art of teaching. The difficulty of the 
practical application of this theory is the constant 
plea, on the part of the teachers, that there is not the 
time to work for such a standard in an art which is 
so apparently simple that the work expended on it 
would never be appreciated. 

My answer to this objection is that, though the 
counsel of perfection would be to devote a great 
deal of time to the story, so as to prepare the at- 
mosphere quite as much as the mere action of the 
little drama (just as photographers use time expo- 
sure to obtain sky effects, as well as the more defi- 
nite objects in the picture), yet it is not so much 
a question of time as concentration on the subject, 
which is one of the chief factors in the preparation 
of the story. 

So many story-tellers are satisfied with cheap re- 
sults, and most audiences are not critical enough to 
encourage a high standard.^ The method of "show- 
ing the machinery" has more immediate results, and 
it is easy to become discouraged over the drudgery 
which is not necessary to secure the approbation of 
the largest number. But, since I am dealing with 

^ A noted Greek gymnast struck his pupil, though he was 
applauded by the whole assembly. "You did it clumsily, and 
not as you ought, for these people would never have praised 
you for anything really artistic." 

2.7 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

the essentials of really good story-telling, I may be 
pardoned for suggesting the highest standard and 
the means for reaching it. 

Therefore, I maintain that capacity for work, 
and even drudgery, is among the essentials of story- 
telling. Personally, I know of nothing more inter- 
esting than watching the story grow gradually from 
mere outline into a dramatic whole. It is the same 
pleasure, I imagine, which is felt over the gradual 
development of a beautiful design on a loom. I do 
not mean machine-made work, which has to be done 
under adverse conditions in a certain time and which 
is similar to thousands of other pieces of work; but 
that work upon which we can bestow unlimited time 
and concentrated thought. 

The special joy in the slowly-prepared story comes 
in the exciting moment when the persons, or even 
the inanimate objects, become alive and move as of 
themselves. I remember spending two or three dis- 
couraging weeks with Andersen's story of the "Ad- 
ventures of a Beetle." I passed through times of 
great depression, because all the little creatures, 
beetles, ear-wigs, frogs, etc., behaved in such a con- 
ventional, stilted way, instead of displaying the 
strong individuality which Andersen had bestowed 
upon them that I began to despair of presenting a 
live company at all. 

But one day, the Beetle, so to speak, "took the 
stage," and at once there was life and animation 

28 



THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY 

among the minor characters. Then the main work 
was done, and there remained only the compara- 
tively easy task of guiding the movement of the 
little drama, suggesting side issues and polishing 
the details, always keeping a careful eye on the 
Beetle, that he might "gang his ain gait" and pre- 
serve to the full his own individuality. 

There is a tendency in preparing stories to begin 
with detail work, often a gesture or side issue which 
one has remembered from hearing a story told, but 
if this is done before the contemplative period, only 
scrappy, jerky and ineffective results are obtained, 
on which one cannot count for dramatic effects. 
This kind of preparation reminds one of a young 
peasant woman who was taken to see a performance 
of "Wilhelm Tell," and when questioned as to the 
plot could only sum it up by saying, "I know some 
fruit was shot at." ^ 

I realize the extreme difficulty teachers have to 
devote the necessary time to perfecting the stories 
they tell in school, because this is only one of the 
subjects they have to teach in an already over- 
crowded curriculum. To them I would offer this 
practical advice: Do not be afraid to repeat your 
stories.^ If you did not undertake more than seven 

^ For further details on the question of preparation of the 
story, see chapter on "Questions Asked by Teachers." 

^ Sully says that children love exact repetition because of 
the intense enjoyment bound up with the process of imagina- 
tive realization. 

29 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

stories a year, chosen with infinite care, and if you 
repeated these stories six times during the year of 
forty-two weeks, you would be able to do artistic 
and, therefore, lasting work; you would give a 
very great deal of pleasure to the children who de- 
light in hearing a story many times. You would 
also be able to avoid the direct moral application, 
for each time a child hears a story artistically told, 
a little more of the meaning underlying the simple 
story will come to him without any explanation on 
your part. The habit of doing one's best instead of 
one's second-best means, in the long run, that one 
has no interest except in the preparation of the best, 
and the stories, few in number, polished and fin- 
ished in style, will have an effect of which one can 
scarcely overstate the importance. 

In the story of the "Swineherd," Hans Andersen 
says: 

"On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a 
rose-tree. It only bloomed once in five years, and 
only bore one rose. But what a rose ! Its perfume 
was so exquisite that whoever smelt it forgot at once 
all his cares and sorrows." 

Lafcadio Hearn says : 

"Time weeds out the errors and stupidities of 
cheap success, and presents the Truth. It takes, like 
the aloe, a long time to flower, but the blossom is all 
the more precious when it appears." 



CHAPTER III 

THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

By this term I do not mean anything against the 
gospel of simplicity which I am so constantly preach- 
ing, but, for want of a better term, I use the word 
"artifice" to express the mechanical devices by which 
we endeavor to attract and hold the attention of 
the audience. The art of telling stories is, in truth, 
much more difficult than acting a part on the stage : 
First, because the narrator is responsible for the 
whole drama and the whole atmosphere which sur- 
rounds it. He has to live the life of each character 
and understand the relation which each bears to the 
whole. Secondly, because the stage is a miniature 
one, gestures and movements must all be so ad- 
justed as not to destroy the sense of proportion. I 
have often noticed that actors, accustomed to the 
more roomy public stage, are apt to be too broad in 
their gestures and movements when they tell a story. 
The special training for the story-teller should con- 
sist not only in the training of the voice and in choice 
of language, but above all In power of delicate sug- 
gestion, which cannot always be used on the stage 

31 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

because this is hampered by the presence of actual 
things. The story-teller has to present these things 
to the more delicate organism of the "inward eye." 

So deeply convinced am I of the miniature char- 
acter of the story-telling art that I believe one never 
gets a perfectly artistic presentation of this kind in 
a very large hall or before a very large audience. 

I have made experiments along this line, having 
twice told a story to an audience in America ^ ex- 
ceeding five thousand, but on both occasions, though 
the dramatic reaction upon oneself from the re- 
sponse of so large an audience was both gratifying 
and stimulating, I was forced to sacrifice the deli- 
cacy of the story and to take from its artistic value 
by the necessity of emphasis, in order to be heard by 
all present. 

Emphasis is the bane of all story-telling, for it 
destroys the delicacy, and the whole performance 
suggests a struggle in conveying the message. The 
indecision of the victory leaves the audience restless 
and unsatisfied. 

Then, again, as compared with acting on the 
stage, in telling a story one misses the help of ef- 
fective entrances and exits, the footlights, the cos- 
tume, the facial expression of your fellow-actor 
which interprets so much of what you yourself say 
without further elaboration on your part; for, in 

^At the Summer School at Chautauqua, New York, and at, 
Lincoln Park, Chicago. 

32 



THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

the story, in case of a dialogue which necessitates 
great subtlety and quickness in facial expression and 
gesture, one has to be both speaker and listener. 

Now, of what artifices can we make use to take 
the place of all the extraneous help offered to actors 
on the stage? First and foremost, as a means of 
suddenly pulling up the attention of the audience, 
is the judicious art of pausing. For those who have 
not actually had experience in the matter, this ad- 
vice will seem trite and unnecessary, but those who 
have even a little experience will realize with me the 
extraordinary efficacy of this very simple means. It 
is really what Coquelin spoke of as a "high light," 
where the interest is focused, as it were, to a point. 

I have tried this simple art of pausing with every 
kind of audience, and I have very rarely known it 
to fail. It is very difficult to offer a concrete ex- 
ample of this, unless one is giving a "live" repre- 
sentation, but I shall make an attempt, and at least 
I shall hope to make myself understood by those who 
have heard me tell stories. 

In Hans Christian Andersen's "Princess and the 
Pea," the King goes down to open the door himself. 
Now, one may make this point in two ways. One 
may either say: "And then the King went to the 
door, and at the door there stood a real Princess," 
or, "And then the King went to the door, and at the 
door there stood — (pause) — a real Princess." 

It is difficult to exaggerate the difference of ef- 

33 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

feet produced by so slight a pause.^ With children 
it means an unconscious curiosity which expresses 
itself in a sudden muscular tension. There is just 
time during that instant's pause to feel, though not 
to formulate, the question: "What is standing at 
the door?" By this means, half your work of hold- 
ing the attention is accomplished. It is not neces- 
sary for me to enter into the psychological reason 
of this, but I strongly recommend those who are 
interested in the question to read the chapter in 
Ribot's work on this subject, "Essai sur ITmagina- 
tion Creatrice," as well as Mr. Keatlnge's work on 
"Suggestion." 

I would advise all teachers to revise their stories 
with a view to introducing the judicious pause, and 
to vary its use according to the age, the number, 
and, above all, the mood of the audience. Experi- 
ence alone can insure success in this matter. It has 
taken me many years to realize the importance of 
this artifice. 

Among other means for holding the attention of 
the audience and helping to bring out the points of 
the story is the use of gesture. I consider, however, 
that it must be a sparing use, and not of a broad or 
definite character. We shall never improve on the 
advice given by Hamlet to the actors on this subject : 
"See that ye o'erstep not the modesty of Nature." 

^ There must be no more emphasis in the second manner 
than the first. 

34 



THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

And yet, perhaps, it is not necessary to warn 
story-tellers against abuse of gesture. It is more 
helpful to encourage them in the use of it, especially 
in Anglo-Saxon countries, where we are fearful of 
expressing ourselves in this way, and when we do 
the gesture often lacks subtlety. The Anglo-Saxon, 
when he does move at all, moves in solid blocks — a 
whole arm, a whole leg, the whole body — but if one 
watches a Frenchman or an Italian in conversation, 
one suddenly realizes how varied and subtle are the 
things which can be suggested by the mere turn of 
the wrist or the movement of a finger. The power 
of the hand has been so wonderfully summed up in 
a passage from Quintillian that I am justified in 
offering it to all those who wish to realize what can 
be done by gesture : 

"As to the hands, without the aid of which all \. 
delivery would be deficient and weak, it can scarcely 
be told of what a variety of motions they are sus- 
ceptible, since they almost equal in expression the 
power of language itself. For other parts of the 
body assist the speaker, but these, I may almost say, 
speak themselves. With our hands we ask, promise, 
call persons to us and send them away, threaten, 
supplicate, intimate dislike or fear; with our hands 
we signify joy, grief, doubt, acknowledgment, peni- 
tence, and indicate measure, quantity, number and 
time. Have not our hands the power of inciting, of 
restraining, or beseeching, of testifying approba- 

35 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

tlon? ... So that amidst the great diversity of 
tongues pervading all nations and people, the lan- 
guage of the hands appears to be a language common 
to all men." ^ 

One of the most effective of artifices in telling 
•7 stories to young children is the use of mimicry — ■ 
the imitation of animals' voices and sounds in gen- 
eral is of never-ending joy to the listeners. How- 
ever, I should wish to introduce a note of grave 
warning in connection with this subject. This spe- 
cial artifice can only be used by such narrators as 
have special aptitude and gifts in this direction. 
There are many people with good imaginative power 
but who are wholly lacking in the power of mimicry, 
and their efforts in this direction, however pains- 
taking, remain grotesque and therefore ineffective. 
When listening to such performances, of which chil- 
dren are strangely critical, one is reminded of the 
French story in which the amateur animal painter 
is showing her picture to an undiscriminating 
friend : 

"Ah !" says the friend, "this is surely meant for a 
^ lion?" 

"No," says the artist ( ?), with some slight show 
of temper, "it is my little lap-dog." 

Another artifice which is particularly successful 
with very small children is to insure their attention 
by inviting their cooperation before one actually 
^From "Education of an Orator," Book II, Chapter 3. 
36 



THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

begins the story. The following has proved quite 
effective as a short introduction to my stories when 
I was addressing large audiences of children: 

"Do you know that last night I had a very strange 
dream, which I am going to tell you before I begin 
the stories? I dreamed that I was walking along 

the streets of ■ [here would follow the town in 

which I happened to be speaking], with a large 
bundle on my shoulders, and this bundle was full of 
stories which I had been collecting all over the 
world in different countries; and I was shouting at 
the top of my voice : 'Stories! Stories! Stories! 
Who will listen to my stories?' And the children 
came flocking round me in my dream, saying : 'Tell 
ns your stories. We will listen to your stories.' So 
I pulled out a story from my big bundle and I began 
in a most excited way, 'Once upon a time there lived 
a King and a Queen who had no children, and 

they ' Here a little boy, very much like that 

little boy I see sitting in the front row, stopped me, 
saying: 'Oh, I know that old story: it's Sleeping 
Beauty.' 

"So I pulled out a second story, and began : 'Once 
upon a time there was a little girl who was sent by 

her mother to visit her grandmother ' Then a 

little girl, so much like the one sitting at the end of 
the second row, said : 'Oh ! everybody knows that 
story! It's '" 

Here I would make a judicious pause, and then 

37 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

the children in the audience would shout in chorus, 
with joyful superiority: "Little Red Riding- 
Hood !" before I had time to explain that the chil- 
dren in my dream had done the same. 

This method I repeated two or three times, being 
careful to choose very well-known stories. By this 
time the children were all encouraged and stimu- 
lated. I usually finished with congratulations on 
the number of stories they knew, expressing a hope 
that some of those I was going to tell that afternoon 
would be new to them. I have rarely found this 
plan fail to establish a friendly relation between 
oneself and the juvenile audience. It is often a 
matter of great difficulty, not to win the attention 
of an audience but to keep it, and one of the most 
subtle artifices is to let the audience down (without 
their perceiving it) after a dramatic situation, so 
that the reaction may prepare them for the interest 
of the next situation. 

An excellent instance of this is to be found in 
Rudyard Kipling's story of "The Cat That Walked 
. . ." where the repetition of words acts as a sort 
of sedative until one realizes the beginning of a 
fresh situation. 

The great point is never to let the audience quite 
down, that is, in stories which depend on dramatic 
situations. It is just a question of shade and color 
in the language. If you are telling a story in sec- 
tions, and one spread over two or three occasions, 

38 



THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

you should always stop at an exciting moment. It 
encourages speculation in the children's minds, 
which increases their interest when the story is 
taken up again. 

Another very necessary quality in the mere arti- 
fice of story-telling is to watch your audience, so as 
to be able to know whether its mood is for action or 
reaction, and to alter your story accordingly. The 
moods of reaction are rarer, and you must use them 
for presenting a different kind of material. Here is 
your opportunity for introducing a piece of poetic 
description, given in beautiful language, to which 
the children cannot listen when they are eager for 
action and dramatic excitement. 

Perhaps one of the greatest artifices is to take a 
quick hold of your audience by a striking beginning 
which will enlist their attention from the start. You 
can then relax somewhat, but you must be careful 
also of the end because that is what remains most 
vivid for the children. If you question them as 
to which story they like best in a program, you will 
constantly find it to be the last one you have told, 
which has for the moment blurred out the others. 

Here are a few specimens of beginnings which 
seldom fail to arrest the attention of the child : 

"There was once a giant ogre, and he lived in a 
cave by himself." From "The Giant and the Jack- 
straws," David Starr Jordan. 

"There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who 
39 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

were all brothers, for they had been made out of 
the same old tin spoon." From "The Tin Soldier," 
Hans Christian Andersen. 

"There was once an Emperor who had a horse 
shod with gold." From "The Beetle," Hans Chris- 
tian Andersen. 

"There was once a merchant who was so rich that 
he could have paved the whole street with gold, and 
even then he would have had enough for a small 
alley." From "The Flying Trunk," Hans Christian 
Andersen. 

"There was once a shilling which came forth from 
the mint springing and shouting, 'Hurrah ! Now I 
am going out into the wide world.' " From "The 
Silver Shilling," Hans Christian Andersen. 

"In the High and Far Off Times the Elephant, O 
Best Beloved, had no trunk." From "The Ele- 
phant's Child": "Just So Stories," Rudyard Kip- 
ling. 

"Not always was the Kangaroo as now we behold 
him, but a Different Animal with four short legs." 
From "Old Man Kangaroo": "Just So Stories," 
Rudyard Kipling. 

"Whichever way I turn," said the weather-cock 
on a high steeple, "no one Is satisfied." From "Fire- 
side Fables," Edwin Barrow. 

"A set of chessmen, left standing on their board, 
resolved to alter the rules of the game." From the 
same source. 

40 



THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING 

"The Pink Parasol had tender whalebone ribs 
and a slender stick of cherry-wood." From "Very 
Short Stories," Mrs. W. K. Clifford. 

"There was once a poor little Donkey on Wheels : 
it had never wagged its tail, or tossed its head, or 
said 'Hee-haw,' or tasted a tender thistle." From 
the same source. 

Now, some of these beginnings are, of course, for 
very young children, but they all have the same ad- 
vantage, that of plunging in medias res, and, there- 
fore, arrest attention at once, contrary to the stories 
which open on a leisurely note of description. 

In the same way we must be careful about the 
endings of the stories. They must impress them- 
selves either in a very dramatic climax to which the 
whole story has worked up, as in the following : 

"Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods, or 
up the Wet Wild Trees, or on the Wet Wild Roofs, 
waving his Wild Tail, and walking by his Wild 
Lone." From "Just So Stories," Rudyard Kipling. 

Or by an anti-climax for effect : 

"We have all this straight out of the alderman's 
newspaper, but it is not to be depended on." From 
"Jack the Dullard," Hans Christian Andersen. 

Or by evadmg the point : 

"Whoever does not believe this must huy shares 
in the Tanner's yard." From "A Great Grief," 
Hans Christian Andersen. 

Or by some striking general comment : 
41 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"He has never caught up with the three days he 
missed at the beginning of the world, and he has 
never learnt how to behave." From "How the 
Camel got his Hump" : "Just So Stories," Rudyard 
Kipling. 

I have only suggested In this chapter a few of the 
artifices which I have found useful in my own ex- 
perience, but I am sure that many more might be 
added. 



CHAPTER IV 

ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN SELECTION OF 
MATERIAL 

I am confronted in this portion of my work with 
a great difficulty, because I cannot afford to be as 
cathohc as I could wish (this rejection or selection 
of material being primarily intended for those story- 
tellers dealing with normal children) ; but I do wish 
from the outset to distinguish between a story told 
to an individual child in the home circle or by a 
personal friend, and a story told to a group of chil- 
dren as part of the school curriculum. And if I 
seem to reiterate this difference, it is because I wish 
to show very clearly that the recital of parents and 
friends may be quite separate in content and manner 
from that offered by the teaching world. In the 
former case, almost any subject can be treated, be- 
cause, knowing the individual temperament of the 
child, a wise parent or friend knows also what can 
be presented or not presented to the child; but in 
dealing with a group of norm.al children in school 
much has to be eliminated that could be given fear- 
lessly to the abnormal child ; I mean the child who, 

43 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

by circumstances or temperament, is developed be- 
yond his years. 

I shall now mention some of the elements which 
experience has shown me to be unsuitable for class 
stories. 

I. Stories dealing with analysis of motive and 
feeling. This warning is specially necessary today, 
because this is, above all, an age of introspection 
and analysis. We have only to glance at the princi- 
pal novels and plays during the last quarter of a 
century, more especially during the last ten years, to 
see how this spirit has crept into our literature and 
life. 

Now, this tendency to analyze is obviously more 
dangerous for children than for adults, because, 
from lack of experience and knowledge of psychol- 
ogy, the child's analysis is incomplete. It cannot see 
all the causes of the action, nor can it make that 
philosophical allowance for mood which brings the 
adult to truer conclusions. 

Therefore, we should discourage the child who 
shows a tendency to analyze too closely the motives 
of its action, and refrain from presenting to them 
in our stories any example which might encourage 
them to persist in this course, 

I remember, on one occasion, when I went to say 
good night to a little girl of my acquaintance, I 
found her sitting up in bed, very wide-awake. Her 
eyes were shining, her cheeks were flushed, and 

44 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

when I asked her what had excited her so much, she 
said : 

"I know I have done something wrong today, but 
I cannot quite remember what it was." 

I said: "But, PhylHs, if you put your hand, 
which is really quite small, in front of your eyes, 
you could not see the shape of anything else, how- 
ever large it might be. Now, what you have done 
today appears very large because it is so close, but 
when it is a little further off, you will be able to see 
better and know more about it. So let us wait till 
tomorrow morning." 

I am happy to say that she took my advice. She 
was soon fast asleep, and the next morning she had 
forgotten the wrong over which she had been un- 
healthily brooding the night before. 

2. Stories dealing too much with sarcasm and 
satire. These are weapons which are too sharply 
polished, and therefore too dangerous, to place in 
the hands of children. For here again, as in the 
case of analysis, they can only have a very incom- 
plete conception of the case. They do not know the 
real cause which produces the apparently ridiculous 
situation. It is experience and knowledge which 
lead to the discovery of the pathos and sadness which 
often underlie the ridiculous appearance, and it is 
only the abnormally gifted child or grown-up per- 
son who discovers this by Instinct. It takes a life- 
time to arrive at the position described in Sterne's 

45 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

words: "I would not have let fallen an unseason- 
able pleasantry in the venerable presence of misery 
to be entitled to all the wit which Rabelais has ever 
scattered." 

I will hasten to add that I should not wish chil- 
dren to have their sympathy too much drawn out, 
or their emotions kindled too much to pity, because 
this would be neither healthy nor helpful to them- 
selves or others. I only want to protect children 
from the dangerous critical attitude induced by the 
use of satire which sacrifices too much of the at- 
mosphere of trust and belief in human beings which 
ought to be an essential of childlife. By indulging 
in satire, the sense of kindness in children would 
become perverted, their sympathy cramped, and 
they themselves would be old before their time. We 
have an excellent example of this in Hans Christian 
Andersen's "Snow Queen." 

When Kay gets the piece of broken mirror into 
his eye, he no longer sees the world from the normal 
child's point of view ; he can no longer see anything 
but the foibles of those about him, a condition usu- 
\ ally reached only by a course of pessimistic experi- 
ence. 

Andersen sums up the unnatural point of view in 
these words : "When Kay tried to repeat the Lord's 
Prayer, he could only remember the multiplication- 
table." Now, without taking these words in any 
literal sense, we can admit that they represent 

46 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

the development of the head at the expense of the 
heart. 

An example of this kind of story to avoid is An- 
dersen's "Story of the Butterfly." The bitterness 
of the Anemones, the sentimentality of the Violets, 
the schoolgirlishness of the Snowdrops, the domes- 
ticity of the Sweetpeas — all this tickles the palate of 
the adult, but does not belong to the plane of the 
normal child. Again, I repeat, that the unusual child 
may take all this in and even preserve his kindly 
attitude towards the world, but it is dangerous at- 
mosphere for the ordinary child. 

3. Stories of a sentimental character. Strange 
to say, this element of sentimentality appeals more 
to the young teachers than to the children them- 
selves. It is difficult to define the difference be- 
tween real sentiment and sentimentality, but the 
healthy normal boy or girl of, let us say, ten or 
eleven years old, seems to feel it unconsciously, 
though the distinction is not so clear a few years 
later. 

Mrs. Elisabeth McCracken contributed an excel- 
lent article some years ago to the Outlook on the 
subject of literature for the young, in which we find 
a good illustration of this power of discrimination 
on the part of a child. 

A young teacher was telling her pupils the story 
of the emotional lady who, to put her lover to the 
test, bade him pick up the glove which she had 

47 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

thrown down into the arena between the tiger and 
the Hon. The lover does her bidding in order to 
vindicate his character as a brave knight. One boy 
after hearing the story at once states his contempt 
for the knight's acquiescence, which he declares to 
be unworthy. 

"But," says the teacher, "you see he really did it 

to show the lady how foolish she was." The an- 

V swer of the boy sums up what I have been trying to 

show : "There was no sense in his being sillier than 

she was, to show her she was silly." 

If the boy had stopped there, we might have con- 
cluded that he was lacking in imagination or ro- 
mance, but his next remark proves what a balanced 
and discriminating person he was, for he added: 
"Now, if she had fallen in, and he had leapt after 
her to rescue her, that would have been splendid 
and of some use." Given the character of the lady, 
we might, as adults, question the last part of the 
boy's statement, but this is pure cynicism and for- 
tunately does not enter into the child's calculations. 

In my own personal experience, and I have told 
this story often in the German ballad form to girls of 
ten and twelve in the high schools in England, I have 
never found one girl who sympathized with the lady 
or who failed to appreciate the poetic justice meted 
out to her in the end by the dignified renunciation 
of the knight. 

Chesterton defines sentimentality as "a tame, cold, 
< 48 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

or small and inadequate manner of speaking about 
certain matters which demand very large and beau- 
tiful expression." 

I would strongly urge upon young teachers to re- 
vise, by this definition, some of the stories they have 
included in their repertories, and see whether they 
would stand the test or not. 

4. Stories containing strong sensational episodes. 
The danger of this kind of story is all tHe greater 
because many children delight in it and some crave 
for it in the abstract, but fear it in the concrete.^ 

An affectionate aunt, on one occasion, anxious 
to curry favor with a four-year-old nephew, was 
taxing her imagination to find a story suitable for 
his tender years. She was greatly startled when he 
suddenly said, in a most imperative tone : "Tell me 
the story of a bear eating a small boy." This was 
so remote from her own choice of subject that she 
hesitated at first, but coming to the conclusion that 
as the child had chosen the situation he would feel 
no terror in the working up of its details, she began 
a most thrilling and blood-curdling story, leading up 
to the final catastrophe. But just as she had reached 
the great dramatic moment, the child raised his 
hands in terror and said : "Oh ! Auntie, don't let the | 
bear really eat the boy !" 

"Don't you know," said an impatient boy who had 

^ One child's favorite book bore the exciting title of "Birth, 
Life and Death of Crazy Jane." 

49 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

been listening to a mild adventure story considered 
suitable to his years, "that I don't take any interest 
in the story until the decks are dripping with gore ?" 
Here we have no opportunity of deciding whether or 
not the actual description demanded would be more 
alarming than the listener had realized. 

Here is a poem of James Stephens, showing a 
child's taste for sensational things : 

A man was sitting underneath a tree 

Outside the village, and he asked me 

What name was upon this place, and said he 

Was never here before. He told a 

Lot of stories to me too. His nose was flat. 

I asked him how it happened, and he said, 

The first mate of the Mary Ann done that 

With a marling-spike one day, but he was dead. 

And a jolly job too, but he'd have gone a long way to 

have killed him. 
A gold ring in one ear, and the other was bit off by a 

crocodile, bedad. 
That's what he said : He taught me how to chew. 
He was a real nice man. He liked me too. 

The taste that is fed by the sensational contents of 
the newspapers and the dramatic excitement of 
street life, and some of the lurid representations of 
the cinematograph, is so much stimulated that the 
interest in normal stories is difficult to rouse. I will 
not here dwell on the deleterious effects of over- 
dramatic stimulation, which has been known to lead 
to crime, since I am keener to prevent the telling of 

50 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

too many sensational stories than to suggest a cure 
when the mischief is done. 

Kate Douglas Wiggin has said : 

"Let us be realistic, by all means, but beware, O 
story-teller, of being too realistic. Avoid the shud- 
dering tale of 'the wicked boy who stoned the 
birds,' lest some hearer should be inspired to try the 
dreadful experiment and see if it really does kill." 

I must emphasize the fact, however, that it is 
only the excess of this dramatic element which I 
deplore. A certain amount of excitement is neces- 
sary, but this question belongs to the positive side 
of the subject, and I shall deal with it later on. 

5. Stories presenting matters quite outside the 
plane of a child's interests, unless they are wrapped 
in mystery. Experience with children ought to teach 
us to avoid stories which contain too much allusion 
to matters of which the hearers are entirely igno- 
rant. But, judging from the written stories of 
today, supposed to be for children, it is still a mat- 
ter of difficulty to realize that this form of allusion 
to "foreign" matters, or making a joke, the ap- 
preciation of which depends solely on a special and 
"inside" knowledge, is always bewildering and fatal 
to sustained dramatic interest. 

It is a matter of intense regret that so very few 
people have sufficiently clear remembrance of their 
own childhood to help them to understand the taste 
and point of view of the normal child. There is a 

51 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

passage in the "Brownies," by Mrs. Ewing, which 
illustrates the confusion created in the child mind 
by a facetious allusion in a dramatic moment which 
needed a more direct treatment. When the nursery 
toys have all gone astray, one little child exclaims 
joyfully : 

"Why, the old Rocking-Horse's nose has turned 
up in the oven!" 

"It couldn't," remarks a tiresome, facetious doc- 
tor, far more anxious to be funny than to sympathize 
with the joy oi the child, "it was the purest Grecian, 
modeled from the Elgin marbles." 

Now, for grown-up people this is an excellent 
joke, but for a child who has not yet become ac- 
quainted with these Grecian masterpieces, the whole 
remark is pointless and hampering.^ 

6. Stories which appeal to fear or priggishness. 
This is a class of story which scarcely counts today 
and against which the teacher does not need a warn- 
ing, but I wish to make a passing allusion to these 
stories, partly to round ofif my subject and partly to 
show that we have made some improvement in 
choice of subject. 

When I study the evolution of the story from the 
crude recitals offered to our children within the last 
hundred years, I feel that, though our progress may 

^ This does not imply that the child would not appreciate 
in the right context the thrilling and romantic story in con- 
nection with the finding of the Elgin marbles. 

52 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

be slow, it is real and sure. One has only to take 
some examples from the Chap Books of the begin- 
ning of last century to realize the difference of ap- 
peal. Everything offei"ed then was either an appeal 
to fear or to priggishness, and one wonders how it 
is that our grandparents and their parents ever re- 
covered from the effects of such stories as were of- 
fered to them. But there is the consoling thought 
that no lasting impression was made upon them, 
such as I believe may be possible by the right kind of 
story. 

I offer a few examples of the old type of story : 

Here is an encouraging address offered to chil- f 
dren by a, certain Mr. Janeway abput the year 1828 : 

"Dare you do anything which your parents for- 
bid you, and neglect to do what they command? 
Dare you to run up and down on the Lord's Day, 
or do you keep in to read your book^ and learn what 
your good parents command?" 

Such an address would have almost tempted chil- 
dren to envy the lot of orphans, except that the 
guardians and less close relations might have been 
equally, if not more, severe. 

From "The Curious Girl," published about 1809 : 

"Oh ! papa, I hope you will have no reason to be 
dissatisfied with me, for I love my studies very 
much, and I am never so happy at my play as when I 
have been assiduous at my lessons all day." 

"Adolphus : How strange it is, papa, you should 

53 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

believe it possible for me to act so like a child, now 
that I am twelve years old !" 

Here is a specimen taken from a Chap Book about 
1825: 

Edward refuses hot bread at breakfast. His hos- 
tess asks whether he likes it. 

"Yes, I am extremely fond of it." 

"Why did you refuse it?" 

"Because I know that my papa does not approve of my 
eating it. Am I to disobey a Father and Mother I love 
so well, and forget my duty, because they are a long way 
off? I would not touch the cake, were I sure nobody 
could see me. I myself should know it, and that would 
be sufficient." 

"Nobly replied !" exclaimed Mrs. C. "Act always thus, 
and you must be happy, for although the whole world 
should refuse the praise that is due, you must enjoy the 
approbation of your conscience, which is beyond any- 
thing else," 

Here is a quotation of the same kind from Mrs. 
Sherwood : 

Tender-souled little creatures, desolated by a sense of 
sin, if they did but eat a spoonful of cupboard jam with- 
out Mamma's express permission. . . . Would a modern 
Lucy, jealous of her sister Emily's doll, break out thus 
easily into tearful apology for her guilt: 'I know it is 
wicked in me to be sorry that Emily is happy, but I feel 
that I cannot help it'? And would a modern mother re- 
tort with heartfelt joy: 'My dear child, I am glad you 
have confessed. Now I shall tell you why you feel this 
wicked sorrow'? — proceeding to an account of the de- 

54 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

-, pr avity of human nature so unredeemed by comfort for 
a childish mind of common intelligence that one can 
scarcely imagine the interview ending in anything less 
tragic than a fit of juvenile hysteria. 

Description of a good boy : 

A good boy is dutiful to his Father and Mother, 
obedient to his master and loving to his playfellows. He 
is diligent in learning his book and takes a pleasure in 
improving himself in everything that is worthy of praise. 
He rises early in the morning, makes himself clean and 
decent, and says his prayers. He loves to hear good ad- 
vice, is thankful to those who give it and always follows 
it. He never swears ^ or calls names or uses ill words 
to companions. He is never peevish and fretful, always 
cheerful and good-tempered. 

7. Stories of exaggerated and coarse fun. In 
the chapter on the positive side of this subject 
I shall speak more in detail of the educational value 
of robust and virile representation of fun and of 
sheer nonsense, but as a preparation to these state- 
ments, I should like to strike a note of warning 
against the element of exaggerated and coarse fun 
being encouraged in our school stories, partly, be- 
cause of the lack of humor in such presentations (a 
natural product of stifling imagination) and partly, 
because the strain of the abnormal has the same 

^ One is almost inclined to prefer Marjorie Fleming's little 
innocent oaths. 

"But she was more than usual calm, 
She did not give a single dam." 

55 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

effect as the too frequent use of the melodramatic. 

In an article in Macmillans Magazine, December, 
1869, Miss Yonge writes: 

"A taste for buffoonery is much to be discour- 
aged, an exclusive taste for extravagance most un- 
wholesome and even perverting. It becomes de- 
structive of reverence and soon degenerates into 
coarseness. It permits nothing poetical or imagina- 
tive, nothing sweet or pathetic to exist, and there 
is a certain self-satisfaction and superiority in mak- 
ing game of what others regard with enthusiasm 
and sentiment which absolutely bars the way against 
a higher or softer tone." 

Although these words were written nearly half a 
century ago, they are so specially applicable today 
that they seem quite "up-to-date." Indeed, I think 
they will hold equally good fifty years hence. 

In spite of a strong taste on the part of children 
for what is ugly and brutal, I am sure that we ought 
to eliminate this element as far as possible from 
the school stories, especially among poor children. 
Not because I think children should be protected 
from all knowledge of evil, but because so much of 
this knowledge comes into their life outside school 
that we can well afford to ignore it during school 
hours. At the same time, however, as I shall show 
by example when I come to the positive side, it 
would be well to show children by story illustration 
the difference between brutal ugliness without any- 

56 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

thing to redeem it and surface ugliness, which may 
be only a veil over the beauty that lies underneath. 
It might be possible, for instance, to show children 
the difference between the real ugliness of a brutal 
story of crime and an illustration of it in the sensa- 
tional papers, and the apparent ugliness in the 
priest's face of the "Laocoon" group, because of 
the motive of courage and endurance behind the suf- 
fering. Many stories in everyday life could be 
found to illustrate this. 

8. Stories of infant piety and death-bed scenes. 
The stories for children forty years ago contained 
much of this element, and the following examples 
will illustrate this point: 

Notes from poems written by a child between six 
and eight years of age, by name Philip Freeman, 
afterwards Archdeacon of Exeter: 

Poor Robin, thou canst fly no more, 

Thy joys and sorrows all are o'er. 

Through Life's tempestuous storms thou'st trod, 

But now art sunk beneath the sod. 

Here lost and gone poor Robin lies, 

He trembles, lingers, falls and dies. 

He's gone, he's gone, forever lost. 

No more of him they now can boast. 

Poor Robin's dangers all are past, 

He struggled to the very last. 

Perhaps he spent a happy Life, 

Without much struggle and much strife.^ 

^ Published by John Loder, bookseller, Woodbridge, in 
1829. 

57 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The prolonged gloom of the main theme is some- 
what lightened by the speculative optimism of the 
last verse. 

Life, transient Life, is but a dream, 
Like Sleep which short doth lengthened seem 
Till dawn of day, when the bird's lay 
Doth charm the soul's first peeping gleam. 

Then farewell to the parting year, 
Another's come to Nature dear. 
In every place, thy brightening face 
Does welcome winter's snowy drear. 

Alas ! our time is much mis-spent. 
Then we must haste and now repent. 
We have a book in which to look, 
For we on Wisdom should be bent. 

Should God, the Almighty, King of all, 
Before His judgment-seat now call 
Us to that place of Joy and Grace 
Prepared for us since Adam's fall. 

I think there is no doubt that we have made con:^ 
siderable progress in this matter. Not only do we 
refrain from telling these highly moral (sic) stories 
but we have reached the point of parodying them, in 
sign of ridicule, as, for instance, in such writing as 
Belloc's "Cautionary Tales." These would be a 
trifle too grim for a timid child, but excellent fun 
for adults. 

58 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

It should be our study today to prove to children 
that the immediate importance to them is not to 
think of dying- and going to Heaven, but of living 
and — shall we say? — of going to college, which is a 
far better preparation for the life to come than the 
morbid dwelling upon the possibility of an early 
death. 

In an article signed "Muriel Harris," I think, 
from a copy of the Tribune, appeared a delightful 
article on Sunday books, from which I quote the 
following : 

"All very good little children died young in the 
story-books, so that unusual goodness must have 
been the source of considerable anxiety to affection- 
ate parents. I came across a little old book the other 
day called 'Examples for Youth.' On the yellow 
fly-leaf was written, in childish, carefully-sloping 
hand : 'Presented to Mary Palmer Junior, by her 
sister, to be read on Sundays,' and was dated 1828. 
The accounts are taken from a work on 'Piety Pro- 
moted,' and all of them begin with unusual piety in 
early youth and end with the death-bed of the little 
paragon, and his or her dying words." 

9. Stories containing a mixture of fairy tale and 
science. By this combination one loses what is es- 
sential to each, namely, the fantastic on the one side, 
and accuracy on the other. The true fairy tale 
should be unhampered by any compromise of prob- 
ability even; the scientific representation should be 

59 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

sufficiently marvelous along its own lines to need 
no supernatural aid. Both appeal to the imagination 
in different ways. 

As an exception to this kind of mixture, I should 
cjuote "The Honey Bee, and Other Stories," trans- 
lated from the Danish of Evald by C. G. Moore 
Smith. There is a certain robustness in these stor- 
ies dealing with the inexorable laws of Nature. 
Some of them will appear hard to the child but they 
will be of interest to all teachers. 

Perhaps the worst element in the choice of stories 
is that which insists upon the moral detaching itself 
and explaining the story. In "Alice in Wonder- 
land" the Duchess says, " 'And the moral of that is : 
Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care 
of themselves.' 'How fond she is of finding morals 
in things,' thought Alice to herself." (This gives 
the point of view of the child.) 

The following is a case in point, found in a rare 
old print in the British Museum : 

Jane S. came home with her clothes soiled and hands 
badly torn. "Where have you been?" asked her mother. 

"I fell down the bank near the mill," said Jane, "and 
I should have been drowned, if Mr. M. had not seen me 
and pulled me out." 

"Why did you go so near the edge of the brink?" 

"There was a pretty flower there that I wanted, and 
I only meant to take one step, but I slipped and fell 
down." 

Moral: Young people often take but one step in sinful 
60 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

indulgence [Poor Jane!], but they fall into soul-destroy- 
ing sins. There is a sinful pleasure which they wish to 
enjoy. They can do it by a single act of sin. [The hein- 
ous act of picking a flower!] They do it; but that act 
leads to another, and they fall into the Gulf of Perdition, 
unless God interposes. 

Now, quite apart from the folly of this story we 
must condemn it on moral_gi:£)unds. Could we 
imagine a lower standard of a Deity than that pre- 
sented here to the child ? 

Today the teacher would commend Jane for a 
laudable interest in botany, but might add a word 
of caution about choosing inclined planes in the close 
neighborhood of a body of running water as a 
hunting ground for specimens and a popular, lucid 
explanation of the inexorable law of gravity. 

Here we have an instance of applying a moral 
when we have finished our story, but there are many 
stories where nothing is left to chance in this mat- 
ter and where there is no means for the child to use 
ingenuity or imagination in making out the meaning 
for himself. 

Henry Morley has condemned the use of this 
method as applied to fairy stories. He says : "Mor- 
alizing in a fairy story is like the snoring of Bottom 
in Titanias lap." 

But I think this applies to all stories, and most 
especially to those by which we do wish to teach 
something. 

6i 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

John Burroughs says in his article, "Thou Shalt 
Not Preach" : ^ 

"Didactic fiction can never rank high. Thou shalt 
not preach or teach; thou shalt portray and create, 
and have ends as universal as nature. . . . What 
Art demands is that the artist's personal convictions 
and notions, his likes and dislikes, do not obtrude 
themselves at all; that good and evil stand judged 
in his work by the logic of events, as they do in na- 
ture, and not by any special pleading on his part. 
He does not hold a brief for either side; he exem- 
plifies the working of the creative energy. . . . The 
great artist works in and through and from moral 
ideas; his works are indirectly a criticism of life. 
He is moral without having a moral. The moment 
a moral obtrudes itself, that moment he begins to 
fall from grace as an artist. . . . The great distinc- 
tion of Art is that it aims to see life steadily and to 
see it whole. ... It affords the one point of view 
whence the world appears harmonious and com- 
plete." 

It would seem, then, from this passage, that it is 
of moral importance to put things dramatically. 

In Froebel's "Mother Play" he demonstrates the 
educational value of stories, emphasizing that their 
highest use consists in their ability to enable the 
child, through suggestion, to form a pure and noble 
idea of what a man may be or do. The sensitive- 

* From "Literary Values." 

62 



ELEMENTS TO AVOID IN MATERIAL 

ness of a child's mind is offended if the moral is 
forced upon him, but if he absorbs it unconsciously, 
he has received its influence for all time. 

To me the idea of pointing out the moral of the 
story has always seemed as futile as tying a flower 
on to a stalk instead of letting the flower grow out 
of the stalk, as Nature has intended. In the first 
case, the flower, showy and bright for the moment, 
soon fades away. In the second instance, it devel- 
ops slowly, coming to perfection in fullness of time 
because of the life within. 

Lastly, the element to avoid is that which rouses 
emotions which cannot be translated into action. 

Mr. Earl Barnes, to whom all teachers owe a debt 
of gratitude for the inspiration of his educational 
views, insists strongly on this point. The sole effect 
of such stories is to produce a form of hysteria, for- 
tunately short-lived, but a waste of force which 
might be directed into a better channel.-*^^ Such 
stories are so easy to recognize that it would be use- 
less to make a formal list, but I make further al- 
lusion to them, in dealing with stories from the lives 
of the saints. 

These, then, are the main elements to avoid in the 
selection of material suitable for normal children. 

^A story is told of Confucius, who, having attended a 
funeral, presented his horse to the chief mourner. When 
asked why he bestowed this gift, he replied: "I wept with 
the man, so I felt I ought to do something for him." 

^3 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Much might be added in the way of detail, and the 
special tendency of the day may make it necessary 
to avoid one class of story more than another, but 
this care belongs to another generation of teachers 
and parents. 



CHAPTER V 
ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN CHOICE OF MATERIAL 

In his "Choice of Books," Frederic Harrison has 
said : "The most useful help to reading is to know 
what we shall not read, what we shall keep from that 
small, cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of in- 
formation which we can call our ordered patch of 
fruit-bearing knowledge." 

Now, the same statement applies to our stories, 
and, having busied myself during the last chapter 
with "clearing my small spot" by cutting away a 
mass of unfruitful growth, I am now going to sug- 
gest what would be the best kind of seed to sow in 
the patch which I have "reclaimed from the jungle." 

Again, I repeat, I have no wish to be dogmatic 
and in offering suggestions as to the stories to be 
told, I am catering only for a group of normal 
school children. My list of subjects does not pre- 
tend to cover the whole ground of children's needs, 
and just as I exclude the abnormal or unusual child 
from the scope of my warning in subjects to avoid, 
so do I also exclude that child from the limitation 
in choice of subjects to be sought, because you can 

65 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

offer almost any subject to the unusual child, espe- 
cially if you stand in close relation to him and 
know his powers of apprehension. In this matter, 
age has very little to say ; it is a question of the stage 
of development. 

Experience has taught me that for the group of 
normal children, irrespective of age, the first kind 
of story suitable for them will contain an appeal to 
conditions to which the child is accustomed. The 
reason for this is obvious : the child, having limited 
experience, can only be reached by this experience, 
until his imagination is awakened and he is enabled 
to grasp through this faculty what he has not actu- 
ally passed through. Before this awakening has 
taken place he enters the realm of fiction, repre- 
sented in the story, by comparison with his personal 
experience. Every story and every point in the 
story mean more as that experience widens, and the 
interest varies, of course, with temperament, quick- 
ness of perception, power of visualizing and of 
concentration. 

In 'The Marsh King's Daughter," Hans Chris- 
tian Andersen says : 

"The storks have a great many stories which they 
tell their little ones, all about the bogs and marshes. 
They suit them to their age and capacity. The 
young ones are quite satisfied with krihhle, krahhle, 
or some such nonsense, and find it charming ; but the 
elder ones want something with more meaning." 

66 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

One of the most interesting experiments to be 
made in connection with this subject is to tell the 
same story at intervals of a year or six months to 
an individual child.^ The different incidents in the 
story which appeal to him (and one must watch 
it closely, to be sure the interest is real and not arti- 
ficially stimulated by any suggestion on one's own 
part) will mark his mental development and the 
gradual awakening of his imagination. This ex- 
periment is a very delicate one and will not be in- 
fallible, because children are secretive and the ap- 
preciation is often simulated (unconsciously) pr 
concealed through shyness or want of articulation. 
But it is, in spite of this, a deeply interesting and 
helpful experiment. 

To take a concrete example : Let us suppose the 
story of Andersen's "Tin Soldier" told to a child of 
five or six years. At the first recital, the point which 
will interest the child most will be the setting up of 
the tin soldiers on the table, because he can under- 
stand this by means of his own experience, in his 
own nursery. It is an appeal to conditions to which 
he is accustomed and for which no exercise of the 
imagination is needed, unless we take the effect of 
memory to be, according to Queyrat, retrospective 
imagination. 

The next incident that appeals is the unfamiliar 

^ This experiment cannot be made with a group of children 
for obvious reasons. 

67 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

behavior of the toys, but stih in famihar surround- 
ings ; that is to say, the unusual activities are carried 
on in the safe precincts of the nursery — 'the usual 
atmosphere of the child. 
I quote from the text: 

Late in the evening the other soldiers were put in their 
box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now was 
the time for the toys to play; they amused themselves 
with paying visits, fighting battles and giving balls. The 
tin soldiers rustled about in their box, for they wanted to 
join the games, but they could not get the lid off. The 
nut-crackers turned somersaults, and the pencil scribbled 
nonsense on the slate. 

Now, from this point onwards in the story, the 
events will be quite outside the personal experience 
of the child, and there will have to be a real stretch 
of imagination to appreciate the thrilling and blood- 
curdling adventures of the little tin soldier, namely, 
the terrible sailing down the gutter under the bridge, 
the meeting with the fierce rat who demands the 
soldier's passport, the horrible sensation in the -fish's 
body, etc. Last of all, perhaps, will come the ap- 
preciation of the best qualities of the hero : his mod- 
esty, his dignity, his reticence, his courage and his 
constancy. He seems to combine all the qualities 
of the best soldier with those of the best civilian, 
without the more obvious qualities which generally 
attract first. As for the love story, we must ijot 
expect any child to see its tenderness and beauty, 

68 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

though the individual child may intuitively appre- 
ciate these qualities, but it is not what we wish for 
or work for at this period of child life. 

This method could be applied to various stories. 
I have chosen the "Tin Soldier" because of its 
dramatic qualities and because it is marked off, prob- 
ably quite unconsciously on the part of Andersen, 
into periods which correspond to the child's develop- 
ment. 

In Eugene Field's exquisite little poem of "The 
Dinkey Bird," we find the objects familiar to the 
child in unusual places, so that some imagination is 
needed to realize that "big red sugar-plums are 
clinging to the cliffs beside that sea" ; but the in- 
troduction of the fantastic bird and the soothing 
sound of the amf alula tree are new and delightful 
sensations, quite out of the child's personal experi- 
ence. 

Another such instance is to be found in Mrs. W. 
K. Clifford's story of "Master Willie." The abnor- 
mal behavior of familiar objects, such as a doll, 
leads from the ordinary routine to the paths of ad- 
venture. This story is to be found in a little book 
called "Very Short Stories," a most interesting col- 
lection for teachers and children. 

We now come to the second element we should 
seek in material, namely, the element of the un- 
usual, which we have already anticipated in the story 
of the "Tin Soldier." 

69 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

This element is necessary in response to the de- 
mand of the child who expressed the needs of his 
fellow-playmates when he said : "1 want to go to 
the place where the shadows are real." This is the 
true definition of "faerie" lands and is the first sign 
of real mental development in the child when he is 
no longer content with the stories of his own little 
deeds and experiences, when his ear begins to ap- 
preciate sounds different from the words in his 
own everyday language, and when he begins to 
separate his own personality from the action of the 
story. 

George Goschen says : 

"What I want for the young are books and stories 
which do not simply deal with our daily life. I like 
the fancy even of little children to have some larger 
food than images of their own little lives, and I 
confess I am sorry for the children whose imagina- 
tions are not sometimes stimulated by beautiful fairy 
tales which carry them to worlds different from 
those in which their future will be passed. ... I 
hold that what removes them more or less from their 
daily life is better than what reminds them of it at 
every step." ^ 

It is because of the great value of leading chil- 
dren to something beyond the limited circle of their 
own lives that I deplore the twaddling boarding- 
school stories written for girls and the artificially 
^ From an address on "The Cultivation of the Imagination." 
70 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

prepared public school stories for boys. Why not 
give them the dramatic interest of a larger stage? 
No account of a cricket match or a football triumph 
could present a finer appeal to boys and girls than 
the description of the Peacestead in the "Heroes of 
Asgaard" : 

"This was the playground of the ^sir, where 
they practiced trials of skill one with another and 
held tournaments and sham fights. These last were 
always conducted in the gentlest and most honorable 
manner; for the strongest law of the Peacestead 
was that no angry blow should be struck or spiteful 
word spoken upon the sacred field." 

For my part, I would unhesitatingly give to boys 
and girls an element of strong romance in the stor- 
ies which are told them even before they are twelve. 

Miss Sewell says : 

"The system that keeps girls in the schoolroom 
reading simple stories, without reading Scott and 
Shakespeare and Spenser, and then hands them over 
to the unexplored recesses of the Circulating Li- 
brary, has been shown to be the most frivolizing 
that can be devised." She sets forth as the result 
of her experience that a good novel, especially a 
romantic one, read at twelve or fourteen, is really a 
beneficial thing. 

At present, so many of the children from the ele- 
mentary schools get their first idea of love, if one 
can give it such a name, from vulgar pictures dis- 

71 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

played in the shop windows or jokes on marriage, 
culled from the lowest type of paper, or the proceed- 
ings of a divorce court. 

What an antidote to such representation might be 
found in the stories of Hector and Andromache, 
Siegfried and Briinnehilde, Dido and yEneas, Or- 
pheus and Eurydice, St. Francis and St. Clare ! 

One of the strongest elements we should introduce 
into our stories for children of all ages is that which 
calls forth love of beauty. And the beauty should 
stand out, not only in the delineation of noble quali- 
ties in our heroes and heroines, but in the beauty 
and strength of language and form. 

In this latter respect, the Bible stories are of such 
inestimable value; all the greater because a child is 
familiar with the subject and the stories gain fresh 
significance from the spoken or winged word as 
compared with the mere reading. As to whether 
we should keep to the actual text is a matter of in- 
dividual experience. Professor R. G. Moulton, 
whose interpretations of the Bible stories are so 
well known both in England and America, does not 
always confine himself to the actual text, but draws 
the dramatic elements together, rejecting what 
seems to him to break the narrative, but introducing 
the actual language where it is the most effective. 
Those who have heard him will realize the success 
of his method. 

There is one Bible story which can be told with 

^2 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

scarcely any deviation from the text, if only a few 
hints are given beforehand, and that is the story of 
Nebuchadnezzar and the Golden Image. Thus, I 
think it wise, if the children are to succeed in par- 
tially visualizing the story, that they should have 
some idea of the dimensions of the Golden Image as 
it would stand out in a vast plain. It might be well 
to compare those dimensions with some building 
with which the child is familiar. In London, the 
matter is easy as the height will compare, roughly 
speaking, with Westminster Abbey. The only 
change in the text I should adopt is to avoid the 
constant enumeration of the list of rulers and the 
musical instruments. In doing this, I am aware 
that I am sacrificing something of beauty in the 
rhythm, but, on the other hand, for narrative pur- 
pose the interest is not broken. The first time the 
announcement is made, that is, by the Herald, it 
should be in a perfectly loud, clear and toneless voice, 
such as you would naturally use when shouting 
through a trumpet to a vast concourse of people 
scattered over a wide plain, reserving all the dra- 
matic tone of voice for the passage where Nebuchad- 
nezzar is making the announcement to the three 
men by themselves. I can remember Professor 
Moulton saying that all the dramatic interest of the 
story is summed up in the words "But if not ..." 
This suggestion is a very helpful one, for it enables 
us to work up gradually to this point, and then, as 

73 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

it were, unwind^ until we reach the words of Neb- 
uchadnezzar's dramatic recantation. 

In this connection, it is a good plan occasionally 
during the story hour to introduce really good poetry 
which, delivered in a dramatic manner (far re- 
moved, of course, from the melodramatic), might 
give children their first love of beautiful form in 
verse. And I do not think it necessary to wait for 
this. Even the normal child of seven, though there 
is nothing arbitrary in the suggestion of this age, 
will appreciate the effect, if only on the ear, of beau- 
tiful lines well spoken. Mahomet has said, in his 
teaching advice: "Teach your children poetry; it 
opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom and makes 
heroic virtues hereditary." 

To begin with the youngest children of all, here 
is a poem which contains a thread of story, just 
enough to give a human interest : 

MILKING-TIME 

When the cows come home, the milk is coming; 
Honey's made when the bees are humming. 
Duck, drake on the rushy lake, 
And the deer live safe in the breezy brake. 
And timid, funny, pert little bunny 
. Winks his nose, and sits all sunny. 

Christina Rossetti. 

Now, in comparing this poem with some of the 
doggerel verse offered to small children, one is 

74 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

struck with the Hterary superiority in the choice of 
words. Here, in spite of the simpHcity of the poem, 
there is not the ordinary hmited vocabulary, nor the 
forced rhyme, nor the apphcation of a moral, by 
which the artist falls from grace. 

Again, Eugene Field's "Hushaby Lady," of which 
the language is most simple, yet the child is carried 
away by the beauty of the sound. 

I remember hearing some poetry repeated by the 
children in one of the elementary schools in Shef- 
field which made me feel that they had realized ro- 
mantic possibilities which would prevent their lives 
from ever becoming quite prosaic again, and I wish 
that this practice were more usual. There is little 
difficulty with the children. I can remember, in my 
own experience as a teacher in London, making the 
experiment of reading or repeating passages from 
Milton and Shakespeare to children from nine to 
eleven years of age, and the enthusiastic way they 
responded by learning those passages by heart. I 
have taken with several sets of children such pas- 
sages from Milton as the "Echo Song," "Sabrina," 
"By the Rushy-fringed Bank," "Back, Shepherds, 
Back," from "Comus"; "May Morning," "Ode to 
Shakespeare," "Samson," "On His Blindness," etc. 
I even ventured on several passages from "Paradise 
Lost," and found "Now came still evening on" a 
particular favorite with the children. 

It seemed even easier to interest them in Shake- 

75 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

speare, and they learned quite readily and easily 
many passages from "As You Like It," "The Mer- 
chant of Venice," "Julius Csesar," "Richard H," 
"Henry IV," and "Henry V." 

The method I should recommend in the intro- 
duction of both poets occasionally into the story- 
hour would be threefold. First, to choose passages 
which appeal for beauty of sound or beauty of men- 
tal vision called up by those sounds; such as "Tell 
me where is Fancy bred," "Titania's Lullaby," 
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank." 
Secondly, passages for sheer interest of content, 
such as the Trial Scene from "The Merchant of 
Venice," or the Forest Scene in "As You Like It." 
Thirdly, for dramatic and historical interest, such 
as, "Men at some time are masters of their fates," 
the whole of Mark Antony's speech, and the scene 
with Imogen and her foster brothers in the Forest. 

It may not be wholly out of place to add here that 
the children learned and repeated these passages 
themselves, and that I offered them the same advice 
as I do to all story-tellers. I discussed quite openly 
with them the method I considered best, trying to 
make them see that simplicity of delivery was not 
only the most beautiful but the most effective means 
to use and, by the end of a few months, when they 
had been allowed to experiment and express them- 
selves, they began to see that mere ranting was not 
force and that a sense of reserve power is infinitely 

76 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

more impressive and inspiring than mere external 
presentation. 

I encouraged them to criticize each other for the 
common good, and sometimes I read a few lines 
with overemphasis and too much gesture, which they 
were at liberty to point out that they might avoid 
the same error. 

Excellent collections of poems for this purpose of 
narrative are : Mrs. P. A. Barnett's series of "Song 
and Story," published by Adam Black, and "The 
Posy Ring," chosen and classified by Kate Douglas 
Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith, published by 
Doubleday, For older children, "The Call of the 
Homeland," selected and arranged by Dr. R. P. 
Scott and Katharine T. Wallas, published by 
Blackie; "A Book of Famous Verse," selected by 
Agnes Repplier, published by Houghton^ Mifflin, 
and "Golden Numbers," chosen and classified by 
Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith, 
published by Doubleday. 

I think it is well to have a goodly number of stor- 
ies illustrating the importance of common-sense and 
resourcefulness. 

For this reason, I consider the stories treating of 
the ultimate success of the youngest son ^ very ad- 
mirable for the purpose, because the youngest child 
who begins by being considered inferior to the older 

^ "The House in the Wood" (Grimm), is another instance 
of triumph for the youngest child. 

77 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

ones triumphs in the end, either from resourceful- 
ness or from common-sense or from some higher 
quality, such as kindness to animals, courage in 
overcoming difficulties, etc.^ 

Thus, we have the story of Cinderella. The cynic 
might imagine that it was the diminutive size of her 
foot that insured her success. The child does not 
realize any advantage in this, but, though the matter 
need not be pressed, the story leaves us with the im- 
pression that Cinderella had been patient and in- 
dustrious, and forbearing with her sisters. We 
know that she was strictly obedient to her god- 
mother, and in order to be this she makes her 
dramatic exit from the ball which is the beginning 
of her triumph. There are many who might say 
that these qualities do not meet with reward in 
life and that they end in establishing a habit of 
drudgery, but, after all, we must have poetic justice 
in a fairy story, occasionally, at any rate, even if 
the child is confused by the apparent contradiction. 

Such a story is "Jesper and the Hares." Here, 
however, it is not at first resourcefulness that helps 
the hero, but sheer kindness of heart, which prompts 
him first to help the ants, and then to show civility 
to the old woman, without for a moment expecting 
any material benefit from such actions. At the end, 
he does win on his own ingenuity and resourceful- 
ness, and if we regret that his trickery has such 
^ See list of stories under this heading. 
78 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

wonderful results, we must remember the aim was 
to win the princess for herself, and that there was 
little choice left him. I consider that the end of 
this story is one of the most remarkable I have 
found in my long years of browsing among fairy 
tales. I should suggest stopping at the words : 
"The Tub is full," as any addition seems to destroy 
the subtlety of the story. ^ 

Another story of this kind, admirable for children 
from six years and upwards, is, "What the Old Man 
Does is Always Right." Here, perhaps, the entire 
lack of common-sense on the part of the hero would 
serve rather as a warning than a stimulating ex- 
ample, but the conduct of the wife in excusing the 
errors of her foolish husband is a model of resource- 
fulness. 

In the story of "Hereafter-this," ^ we have just 
the converse : a perfectly foolish wife shielded by a 
most patient and forbearing husband, whose toler- 
ance and common-sense save the situation. 

One of the most important elements to seek in our 
choice of stories is that which tends to develop, even- 
tually, a fine sense of humor in a child. I purposely 
use the word, "eventually," because I realize, first, 
that humor has various stages, and that seldom, if 
ever, can one expect an appreciation of fine humor 
from a normal child, that is, from an elemental 

^ To be found in Andrew Lang's "The Violet Fairy Book." 
* To be found in Jacob's "More English, Fairy Tales." 

79 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

mind. It seems as if the rough-and-tumble element 
were almost a necessary stage through which chil- 
dren must pass, and which is a normal and healthy- 
stage; but up to now we have quite unnecessarily- 
extended the period of elephantine fun, and, though 
we cannot control the manner in which children are 
catered to along this line in their homes, we can re- 
strict the folly of appealing too strongly or too long 
to this elemental faculty in our schools. Of course, 
the temptation is strong because the appeal is so 
easy, but there is a tacit recognition that horseplay 
and practical jokes are no longer considered as an 
essential part of a child's education. We note this 
in the changed attitude in the schools, taken by more 
advanced educators, towards bullying, fagging, 
hazing, etc. As a reaction, then, from more obvious 
fun, there should be a certain number of stories 
which make appeal to a more subtle element, and in 
the chapter on the questions put to me by teachers on 
various occasions I speak more in detail as to the 
educational value of a finer humor in our stories. 

At some period there ought to be presented in our 
stories the superstitions connected with the primitive 
history of the race, dealing with the fairy proper, 
giants, dwarfs, gnomes, nixies, brownies and other 
elemental beings. Andrew Lang says: "Without 
our savage ancestors we should have had no poetry. 
Conceive the human race born into the world in 
its present advanced condition, weighing, analyzing, 

80 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

examining everything. Such a race would have 
been destitute of poetry and flattened by common- 
sense. Barbarians did the dreaming of the world." 

But it is a question of much debate among edu- 
cators as to what should be the period of the child's 
life in which these stories are to be presented. I, 
myself, was formerly of the opinion that they be- 
longed to the very primitive age of the individual, 
just as they belong to the primitive age of the race, 
but experience in telling stories has taught me to 
compromise. 

Some people maintain that little children, who 
take things with brutal logic, ought not to be allowed 
the fairy tale In Its more limited form of the super- 
natural; whereas, if presented to older children, this 
material can be criticized, catalogued and (alas!) 
rejected as worthless, or retained with flippant tol- 
eration. 

While realizing a certain value in this point of 
view, I am bound to admit that if we regulate our 
stories entirely on this basis, we lose the real value 
of the fairy tale element. It is the one element 
which causes little children to wonder, simply be- 
cause no scientific analysis of the story can be pre- 
sented to them. It is somewhat heartrending to 
feel that "J^^k and the Bean Stalk" and stories of 
that ilk are to be handed over to the critical youth 
who will condemn the quick growth of the tree as 
being contrary to the order of nature, and wonder 

8i 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

why Jack was not playing- football on the school 
team instead of climbing trees in search of imag- 
inary adventures. 

A wonderful plea for the telling of early super- 
stitions to children is to be found in an old Indian 
allegory called, "The Blazing Mansion." 

An old man owned a large rambling Mansion. The 
pillars were rotten, the galleries tumbling down, the 
thatch dry and combustible, and there was only one door. 
Suddenly, one day, there was a smell of fire : the old man 
rushed out. To his horror he saw that the thatch was 
aflame, the rotten pillars were catching fire one by one, 
and the rafters were burning like tinder. But, inside, the 
children went on amusing themselves quite happily. The 
distracted Father said: "I will run in and save my chil- 
dren. I will seize them in my strong arms, I will bear 
them harmless through the falling rafters and the blazing 
beams." Then the sad thought came to him that the chil- 
dren were romping and ignorant. "If I say the house is 
on fire, they will not understand me. If I try to seize 
them, they will romp about and try to escape. Alas ! not 
a moment to be lost !" Suddenly a bright thought flashed 
across the old man's mind. "My children are ignorant," 
he said; "they love toys and glittering playthings. I will 
promise them playthings of unheard-of beauty. Then 
they will listen." 

So the old man shouted: "Children, come out of the 
house and see these beautiful toys ! Chariots with white 
oxen, all gold and tinsel. See these exquisite little ante- 
lopes. Whoever saw such goats as these? Children, 
children, come quickly, or they will all be gone !" 

Forth from the blazing ruin the children came in hot 

82 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

haste. The word, "plaything," was almost the only word 
they could understand. 

Then the Father, rejoiced that his offspring were freed 
from peril, procured for them one of the most beautiful 
chariots ever seen. The chariot had a canopy like a 
pagoda; it had tiny rails and balustrades and rows of 
jingling bells. Milk-white oxen drew the chariot. The 
children were astonished when they were placed inside.^ 

Perhaps, as a compromise, one might give the 
gentler superstitions to very small children, and 
leave such a blood-curdling story as "Bluebeard" to 
a more robust age. 

There is one modern method which has always 
seemed to me much to be condemned, and that is the 
habit of changing the end of a story, for fear of 
alarming the child. This is quite indefensible. In 
doing this we are tampering with folklore and con- 
fusing stages of development. 

Now, I know that there are individual children 
that, at a tender age, might be alarmed at such a 
story, for instance, as "Little Red Riding-Hood" ; 
in which case, it is better to sacrifice the "wonder 
stage" and present the story later on. 

I live in dread of finding one day a bowdlerized 
form of "Bluebeard," prepared for a junior stand- 
ard, in which, to produce a satisfactory finale, all 
the wives come to life again, and "live happily for- 
ever after" with Bluebeard and each other! 

And from this point it seems an easy transition to 

^ From the "Thabagata." 

S3 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

the subject of legends of different kinds. Some of 
the old country legends in connection with flowers 
are very charming for children, and so long as we 
do not tread on the sacred ground of the nature 
students, we may indulge in a moderate use of such 
stories, of which a few will be found in the List of 
Stories, given later. 

With regard to the introduction of legends con- 
nected with saints into the school curriculum, my 
chief plea is the element of the unusual which they 
contain and an appeal to a sense of mysticism and 
wonder which is a wise antidote to the prosaic and 
commercial tendencies of today. Though many of 
the actions of the saints may be the result of a mor- 
bid strain of self-sacrifice, at least none of them 
was engaged in the sole occupation of becoming 
rich: their ideals were often lofty and unselfish; 
their courage high, and their deeds noble. We must 
be careful, in the choice of our legends, to show up 
the virile qualities rather than to dwell on the ele- 
ments of horror in details of martyrdom, or on the 
too-constantly recurring miracles, lest we should 
defeat our own ends. For the children might think 
lightly of the dangers to which the saints were ex- 
posed if they find them too often preserved at the 
last moment from the punishment they were brave 
enough to undergo. For one or another of these 
reasons, I should avoid the detailed history of St. 
Juliana, St. Vincent, St. Quintin, St. Eustace, St. 

84 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

Winifred, St. Theodore, St. James the More, St. 
Katharine, St. Cuthbert, St. Alphage, St. Peter of 
Milan, St. Quirine and Juliet, St. Alban and others. 

The danger of telling children stories connected 
with sudden conversions is that they are apt to place 
too much emphasis on the process, rather than on 
the goal to be reached. We should always insist on 
the splendid deeds performed after a real conver- 
sion, not the details of the conversion itself ; as, for 
instance, the beautiful and poetical work done by 
St. Christopher when he realized what work he 
could do most effectively. 

On the other hand, there are many stories of the 
saints dealing with actions and motives which would 
appeal to the imagination and are not only worthy 
of imitation, but are not wholly outside the life and 
experience even of the child.^ 

Having protested against the elephantine joke and 
the too- frequent use of exaggerated fun, I now en- 
deavor to restore the balance by suggesting the in- 
troduction into the school curriculum of a few purely 
grotesque stories which serve as an antidote to sen- 
timentality or utilitarianism. But they must be 
presented as nonsense, so that the children may use 
them for what they are intended as — pure relaxation. 
Such a story is that of "The Wolf and the Kids," 

^ For selection of suitable stories among legends of the 
Saints, see list of stories under the heading, "Stories from 
tjie Lives of the Saints." 

85 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

which I present in my own version at the end of the 
book. I have had serious objections offered to this 
story by several educational people, because of the 
revenge taken by the goat on the wolf, but I am in- 
clined to think that if the story is to be taken as any- 
thing but sheer nonsense, it is surely sentimental to 
extend our sympathy towards a caller who has de- 
voured six of his hostess' children. With regard 
to the wolf being cut open, there is not the slightest 
need to accentuate the physical side. Children ac- 
cept the deed as they accept the cutting off of a 
giant's head, because they do not associate it with 
pain, especially if the deed is presented half humor- 
ously. The moment in the story where their sym- 
pathy is aroused is the swallowing of the kids, be- 
cause the children do realize the possibility of being 
disposed of in the mother's absence. (Needless to 
say, I never point out the moral of the kids' dis- 
obedience to the mother in opening the door.) I 
have always noticed a moment of breathlessness 
even in a grown-up audience when the wolf swal- 
lows the kids, and that the recovery of them "all 
safe and sound, all huddled together" is quite as 
much appreciated by the adult audience as by the 
children, and is worth the tremor caused by the 
wolf's summary action. 

I have not always been able to impress upon the 
teachers the fact that this story must be taken 
lightly. A very earnest young student came to me 

86 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

once after the telling of this story and said in an 
awe-struck voice: "Do you cor-relate?" Having 
recovered from the effect of this word, which she 
carefully explained, I said that, as a rule, I pre- 
ferred to keep the story quite apart from the other 
lessons, just an undivided whole, because it had 
effects of its own which were best brought about by 
not being connected with other lessons. She 
frowned her disapproval and said : "I am sorry, 
because I thought I would take the Goat for my 
nature study lesson, and then tell your story at the 
end." I thought of the terrible struggle in the 
child's mind between his conscientious wish to be 
accurate and his dramatic enjoyment of the abnor- 
mal habits of a goat who went out with scissors, 
needle and thread; but I have been most careful 
since to repudiate any connection with nature study 
in this and a few other stories in my repertoire. 

One might occasionally introduce one of Edward 
Lear's "Nonsense Rhymes." For instance : 

There was an Old Man of Cape Horn 
Who wished he had never been born. 

So he sat in a chair 

Till he died of despair, 
That dolorous Old Man of Cape Horn. 

Now, except in case of very young children, this 
could not possibly be taken seriously. The least 
observant normal boy or girl would recognize the 
hollowness of the pessimism that prevents an old 

87 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

man from at least an attempt to rise from his chair. 
The following I have chosen as repeated with 
intense appreciation, and much dramatic vigor by a 
little boy just five years old : 

There was an old man who said : "Hush ! 
/ I perceive a young bird in that bush." 

When they said: "Is it small?" 

He replied, "Not at all. 
It is four times as large as the bush." ^ 

One of the most desirable of all elements to in- 
troduce into our stories is that which encourages 
kinship with animals. With very young children 
this is easy, because during those early years when 
the mind is not clogged with knowledge, the sym- 
pathetic imagination enables them to enter into the 
feelings of animals, Andersen has an illustration 
of this point in his "Ice Maiden" : 

"Children who cannot talk yet can understand 
the language of fowls and ducks quite well, and cats 
and dogs speak to them quite as plainly as Father 
and Mother; but that is only when the children are 
very small, and then even Grandpapa's stick will 
become a perfect horse to them that can neigh and, 
in their eyes, is furnished with legs and a tail. With 
some children this period ends later than with oth- 
ers, and of such we are accustomed to say that they 
are very backward, and that they have remained 

^ These words have been set most effectively to music by 
Miss Margaret Ruthven Lang. 

88 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

children for a long time. People are in the habit of 
saying strange things." 

Felix Adler says : 

"Perhaps the chief attraction of fairy tales is due 
to their representing the child as living in brotherly 
friendship with nature and all creatures. Trees, 
flowers, animals, wild and tame, even the stars are 
represented as comrades of children. That animals 
are only human beings in disguise is an axiom in 
the fairy tales. Animals are humanized, that is, the 
kinship between animal and human life is still keenly 
felt, and this reminds us of those early animistic in- 
terpretations of nature which subsequently led to 
doctrines of metempsychosis." ^ 

I think that beyond question the finest animal 
stories are to be found in the Indian collections, of 
which I furnish a list in the last chapter. 

With regard to the development of the love of 
Nature through the telling of stories, we are con- 
fronted with a great difficulty in the elementary 
schools because so many of the children have never 
been out of the towns, have never seen a daisy, a 
blade of grass and scarcely a tree, so that in giving, 
in the form of a story, a beautiful description of 
scenery, you can make no appeal to the retrospective 
imagination, and only the rarely gifted child will be 
able to make pictures while listening to a style which 

^ From "The Use of Fairy Tales," in "Moral Instruction 
of Children." 

89 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

is beyond his everyday use. Nevertheless, once in a 
while, when the children are in a quiet mood, not 
eager for action but able to give themselves up to 
the pure joy of sound, then it is possible to give 
them a beautiful piece of writing in praise of Na- 
ture, such as the following, taken from "The Divine 
Adventure," by Fiona Macleod: 

Then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael 
and came out of the Forest Chapel and went into the 
woods. He put his lip to the earth, and lifted a green 
leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear; and be- 
cause he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mor- 
tality, though yet of human clan, he heard that which we 
do not hear, and saw that which we do not see, and knew 
that which we do not know. All the green life was his. 
In that new world he saw the lives of trees, now pale 
green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst; the 
gray lives of stone; breaths of the grass and reed, crea- 
tures of the air, delicate and wild as fawns, or swift and 
fierce and terrible tigers of that undiscovered wilderness, 
with birds almost invisible but for their luminous wings, 
and opalescent crests. 

The value of this particular passage is the mys- 
tery pervading the whole picture, which forms so 
beautiful an antidote to the eternal explaining of 
things. I think it of the highest importance for 
children to realize that the best and most beautiful 
things cannot be expressed in everyday language and 
that they must content themselves with a flash here 
and there of the beauty which may come later. One 

90 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

does not enhance the beauty of the mountain by 
pulHng to pieces some of the earthy clogs; one does 
not increase the impression of a vast ocean by an- 
alyzing the single drops of water. But at a reverent 
distance one gets a clear impression of the whole, 
and can afford to leave the details in the shadow. 

In presenting such passages (and it must be done 
very sparingly), experience has taught me that we 
should take the children into our confidence by tell- 
ing them frankly that nothing exciting is going to 
happen, so that they will be free to listen to the 
mere words. A very interesting experiment might 
occasionally be made by asking the children some 
weeks afterwards to tell you in their own words 
what pictures were made on their minds. This is 
a very different thing from allowing the children to 
reproduce the passage at once, the danger of which 
proceeding I speak of later in detail.^ 

We now come to the question as to what propor- 
tion of dramatic excitement we should present in 
the stories for a normal group of children. Per- 
sonally, I should like, while the child is very young, 
I mean in mind, not in years, to exclude the element 
of dramatic excitement, but though this may be 
possible for the individual child, it is quite Utopian 
to hope that we can keep the average child free from 
what is in the atmosphere. Children crave for ex- 
citement, and unless we give it to them in legitimate 
^ See Chapter on Questions asked by Teachers. 
91 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

•form, they will take it in any riotous form it pre- 
sents itself, and if from our experience we can con- 
trol their mental digestion by a moderate supply of 
what they demand, we may save them from devour- 
ing too eagerly the raw material they can so easily 
find for themselves. 

There is a humorous passage bearing on this ques- 
tion in the story of the small Scotch boy, when he 
asks leave of his parents to present the pious little 
book — a gift to himself from an aunt to a little sick 
friend, hoping probably that the friend's chastened 
condition will make him more lenient towards this 
mawkish form of literature. The parents expostu- 
late, pointing out to their son how ungrateful he is, 
and how ungracious it would be to part with his 
aunt's gift. Then the boy can contain himself no 
longer. He bursts out, unconsciously expressing 
the normal attitude of children at a certain stage of 
development : 

"It's a daft book ony way : there's naebody gets kilt ent. 
I like stories about folk gettin' their heids cut off, or 
stabbit, through and through, wi' swords an' spears. An' 
there's nae wile beasts. I like stories about black men 
gettin' ate up, an' white men killin' lions and tigers an' 
bears an' " 

Then, again, we have the passage from George 
Eliot's "Mill on the Floss" : 

"Oh, dear ! I wish they would not fight at your school, 
Tom. Didn't it hurt you?" 

92 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

"Hurt me ? No," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, 
taking out a large pocketknife, and slowly opening the 
largest blade, which he looked at meditatively as he 
rubbed his finger along it. Then he added: 

"I gave Spooner a black eye — that's what he got for 
wanting to leather me. I wasn't going to go halves be- 
cause anybody leathered me." 

"Oh ! how brave you are, Tom. I think you are like 
Samson. If there came a lion roaring at me, I think 
you'd fight him, wouldn't you, Tom?" 

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? 
There's no lions only in the shows." 

"No, but if we were in the lion countries — I mean in 
Africa where it's very hot, the lions eat people there. I 
can show it you in the book where I read it." 

"Well, I should get a gun and shoot him." 

"But if you hadn't got a gun ?- — we might have gone out, 
you know, not thinking, just as we go out fishing, and 
then a great lion might come towards us roaring, and we 
could not get away from him. What should you do, 
Tom?" 

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, 
saying: "But the lion isn't coming. What's the use of 
talking?" 

This passage illustrates also the difference be- 
tween the highly-developed imagination of the one 
and the stodgy prosaical temperament of the other. 
Tom could enter into the elementary question of 
giving his schoolfellow a black eye, but could not 
possibly enter into the drama of the imaginary ar- 
rival of a lion. He was sorely in need of fairy 
stories. 

93 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

It is to this element we have to cater, and we can- 
not shirk our responsibilities. 

William James says : 

"Living things, moving things or things that 
savor of clanger or blood, that have a dramatic qual- 
ity, these are the things natively interesting to child- 
hood, to the exclusion of almost everything else, and 
the teacher of young children, until more artificial 
interests have grown up, will keep in touch with his 
pupils by constant appeal to such matters as these." ^ 

Of course the savor of danger and blood is only 
one of the things to which we should appeal, but I 
give the whole passage to make the point clearer. 

This is one of the most difficult parts of our selec- 
tion, namely, how to present enough excitement for 
the child and yet include enough constructive ele- 
ment which will satisfy him when the thirst for 
"blugginess" is slaked. 

And here I should like to say that, while wishing 
to encourage in children great admiration and rever- 
ence for the courage and other fine qualities which 
have been displayed in times of war and which have 
mitigated its horrors, I think we should show that 
some of the finest moments in these heroes' lives had 
nothing to do with their profession as soldiers. 
Thus, we have the well-known story of Sir Philip 
Sydney and the soldier; the wonderful scene where 
Roland drags the bodies of his dead friends to re- 
^ From "Talks to Teachers," page 93. 

94 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

ceive the blessing of the Archbishop after the battle 
of Roncesvalle; ^ and of Napoleon sending the sailor 
back to England. There is a moment in the story of 
Gunnar when he pauses in the midst of the slaughter 
of his enemies, and says, "I wonder if I am less base 
than others, because I kill men less willingly than 
they." 

And in the "Burning of Njal," ^ we have the 
words of the boy, Thord, when his grandmother, 
Bergthoi:a, urges him to go out of the burning 
house. 

" 'You promised me when I was little, grand- 
mother, that I should never go from you till I wished 
it of myself. And I would rather die with you than 
live after you.' " 

Here the moral courage is so splendidly shown: 
none of these heroes feared to die in battle or in 
open single fight; but to face a death by fire for 
higher considerations is a point of view worth pre- 
senting to the child. 

In spite of all the dramatic excitement roused by 
the conduct of our soldiers and sailors, should we 
not try to offer also in our stories the romance and 
excitement of saving as well. as taking life? 

i would have quite a collection dealing with the 

^ An excellent account of this is to be found in "The Song 
of Roland," by Arthur Way and Frederic Spender. 

^Njal's Burning, from "The Red Book of Romance," by 
Andrew Lang. 

95 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

thrilling adventures of the Lifeboat and the Fire 
Brigade, of which I shall present examples in the 
final story list. 

Finally, we ought to include a certain number of 
stories dealing with death, especially with children 
who are of an age to realize that it must come to all, 
and that this is not a calamity but a perfectly natural 
and simple thing. At present the child in the street 
invariably connects death with sordid accidents. I 
think they should have stories of death coming in 
heroic form, as when a man or woman dies for a 
great cause, in which he has opportunity of admiring 
courage, devotion and unselfishness; or of death 
coming as a result of treachery, such as we find in 
the death of Baldur, the death of Siegfried, and 
others, so that children may learn to abhor such 
deeds; but also a fair proportion of stories dealing 
with death that comes naturally, when our work is 
done, and our strength gone, which has no more 
tragedy than the falling of a leaf from the tree. In 
this way, we can give children the first idea that the 
individual is so much less than the whole. 

Little children often take death very naturally. 
A boy of five met two of his older companions at 
the school door. They said sadly and solemnly: 
"We have just seen a dead man !" "Well," said the 
little philosopher, "that's all right. We've all got 
to die when our work's done." 

In one of the Buddha stories which I reproduce 
96 



ELEMENTS TO SEEK IN MATERIAL 

at the end of this book, the little Hare (who is, I 
think, a symbol of nervous individualism) constantly 
says : "Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what 
would become of me?" 

As an antidote to the ordinary attitude towards 
death, I commend an episode from a German folk- 
lore story which is called "Unlucky John," and 
which is included in the list of stories recommended 
at the end of this book. 

The following sums up in poetic form some of the 
material necessary for the wants of a child. 

THE CHILD 



The little new soul has come to earth. 

He has taken his staff for the Pilgrim's way. 

His sandals are girt on his tender feet, 
And he carries his scrip for what gifts he may. 



What will you give to him. Fate Divine? 

What for his scrip on the winding road? . 
A crown for his head, or a laurel wreath? 

A sword to wield, or is gold his load? 

3 

What will you give him for weal or woe? 

What for the journey through day and night? 
Give or withhold from him power and fame. 

But give to him love of the earth's delight./ 



97 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

4 

Let him be lover of wind and sun 

And of falling rain; and the friend of trees; 
With a singing heart for the pride of noon, 

And a tender heart for what twilight sees. 

5 
Let him be lover of you and yours — 

The Child and Mary; but also Pan 
And the sylvan gods of the woods and hills, 

And the god that is hid in his fellowman. 



Love and a song arid the joy of earth, 
These be the gifts for his scrip to keep 

Till, the journey ended, he stands at last 
In the gathering dark, at the gate of sleep. 

Ethel Clifford. 

And so our stories should contain all the essen- 
tials for the child's scrip on the road of life, provid- 
ing the essentials and holding or withholding the 
non-essentials. But, above all, let us fill the scrip 
with gifts that the child need never reject, even when 
he passes through to "the gate of sleep." 



CHAPTER VI 

HOW TO OBTAIN AND MAINTAIN THE EFFECT 
OF THE STORY 

We are now come to the most important part of 
the question of story-telling, to which all the fore- 
going remarks have been gradually leading, and 
that is the effect of these stories upon the child, 
quite apart from the dramatic joy he experiences 
in listening to them, which would in itself be quite 
enough to justify us in the telling. But, since I 
have urged the extreme importance of giving so 
much time to the manner of telling and of bestow- 
ing so much care in the selection of the material, it 
is right that we should expect some permanent re- 
sults or else those who are not satisfied with the 
mere enjoyment of the children will seek other 
methods of appeal — and it is to them that I most 
specially dedicate this chapter. 

I think we are on the threshold of the re-discovery 
of an old truth, that dramatic presentation is the 
quickest and the surest method of appeal, because 
it is the only one with which memory plays no 
tricks. If a thing has appeared before us in a vital 

99 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

form, nothing can really destroy it; it is because 
things are often given in a blurred, faint light that 
they gradually fade out of our memory. A very 
keen scientist was deploring to me, on one occasion, 
the fact that stories were told so much in the schools, 
to the detriment of science, for which she claimed 
the same indestructible element that I recognize in 
the best-told stories. Being very much interested 
in her point of view, I asked her to tell me, looking 
back on her school days, what she could remember 
as standing out from other less clear information. 
After thinking some little time over the matter, she 
said with some embarrassment, but with a candor 
that did her much honor : 

"Well, now I come to think of it, it was the story 
of Cinderella." 

Now, I am not holding any brief for this story In 
particular. I think the reason it was remembered 
was because of the dramatic form in which it was 
presented to her, which fired her imagination and 
kept the memory alight. I quite realize that a scien- 
tific fact might also have been easily remembered if 
it had been presented in the form of a successful 
chemical experiment; but this also has something 
of the dramatic appeal and will be remembered on 
that account. 

Sully says : "We cannot understand the fascina- 
tion of a story for children save in remembering 
that for their young minds, quick to imagine, and 

lOO 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

unversed in abstract reflection, words are not dead 
things but winged, as the old Greeks called them." ^ 

The Red Queen, in "Alice Through the Looking- 
Glass," was more psychological than she was aware 
of when she made the memorable statement : 
"When once you've said a thing, that fixes it, and 
you must take the consequences." 

In Curtin's "Introduction to Myths and Folk 
Tales of the Russians," he says : 

"I remember well the feelings roused in my mind 
at the mention or sight of the name Lucifer during 
the early years of my life. It stood for me as the 
name of a being stupendous, dreadful in moral de- 
formity, lurid, hideous and mighty. I remember 
the surprise with which, when I had grown some- 
what older and began to study Latin, I came upon 
the name In Virgil where it means light-hringer — 
the herald of the Sun," 

Plato has said that "the end of education should 
be the training by suitable habits of the instincts of 
virtue In the child." 

About two thousand years later, Sir Philip Syd- 
ney, In his "Defence of Poesy," says : "The final 
end of learning Is to draw and lead us to so high a 
perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by 
their clay lodgings, can be capable of." 

And yet It Is neither the Greek philosopher nor 
the Elizabethan poet that makes the everyday appll- 

^ From "Studies of Childhood." 
lOI 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

cation of these principles; but we have a hint of this 
appHcation from the Pueblo tribe of Indians, of 
whom Lummis tells us the following : 

"There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is 
trained in which he has to be content with a bare 
command : do this. For each, he learns a fairy-tale 
designed to explain how children first came to know 
that it was right to 'do this,' and detailing the sad 
results that befell those who did otherwise. Some 
tribes have regular story-tellers, men who have de- 
voted a great deal of time to learning the myths and 
stories of their people and who possess, in addition 
to a good memory, a vivid imagination. The mother 
sends for one of these, and having prepared a feast 
for him, she and her little brood, who are curled up 
near her, await the fairy stories of the dreamer, 
who after his feast and smoke entertains the com- 
pany for hours." 

In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving 
such complete training for her duties with children, 
should be ready to imitate the "dreamer" of the 
Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that regular instruc- 
tion in story-telling is being given in many of the 
institutions where the nurses are trained. 

Some years ago there appeared a book by Dion 
Calthrop called "King Peter," which illustrates very 
fully the effect of story-telling. It is the account 
of the education of a young prince which is carried 
on at first by means of stories, and later he is taken 

102 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

out into the arena of life to show what is happening 
there — the dramatic appeal being always the means 
used to awaken his imagination. The fact that only 
one story a year is told him prevents our seeing the 
effect from day to day, but the time matters little. 
We only need faith to believe that the growth, 
though slow, was sure. 

There is something of the same idea in the "Ad- 
ventures of Telemachus," written by Fenelon for his 
royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy, but 
whereas Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect 
teaching by means of dramatic stories, Fenelon, on 
the contrary, makes use of the somewhat heavy, 
didactic method, so that one would think the atten- 
tion of the young prince must have wandered at 
times; and I imagine Telemachus was in the same 
condition when he was addressed at such length 
by Mentor, who, being Minerva, though in dis- 
guise, should occasionally have displayed that 
sense of humor which must always temper true 
wisdom. 

Take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed 
in the following passage : 

"Death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the 
pleasures that attack Virtue. . . . Youth is full of 
presumption and arrogance, though nothing in the 
world is so frail : it fears nothing, and vainly relies 
on its own strength, believing everything with the 
utmost levity and without any precaution." 

103 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

And on another occasion, when Calypso hospi- 
tably provides clothes for the shipwrecked men, and 
Telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest wool 
and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroid- 
ered with gold, and displaying much pleasure in the 
magnificence of the clothes. Mentor addresses him 
in a severe voice, saying: "Are these, O Telema- 
chus, the thoughts that ought to occupy the heart 
of the son of Ulysses? A young man who loves to 
dress vainly, as a woman does, is unworthy of wis- 
dom or glory." 

I remember, as a schoolgirl of thirteen, having 
to commit to memory several books of these adven- 
tures, so as to become familiar with the style. Far 
from being impressed by the wisdom of Mentor, I 
was simply bored, and wondered why Telemachus 
did not escape from him. The only part in the 
book that really interested me was Calypso's un- 
requited love for Telemachus, but this was always 
the point where we ceased to learn by heart,^ which 
surprised me greatly, for it was here that the real 
human interest seemed to begin. 

Of all the effects which I hope for from the tell- 
ing of stories in the schools, I, personally, place first 
the dramatic joy we bring to the children and to 
ourselves. But there are many who would con- 
sider this result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and 
not to be classed among the educational values con- 
nected with the introduction of stories into the 

104 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

school curriculum. I, therefore, propose to speak 
of other effects of story-telling which may seem of 
more practical value. 

The first, which is of a purely negative character, 
is that through means of a dramatic story we may 
counteract some of the sights and sounds of the 
streets which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in 
children. I am sure that all teachers whose work 
lies in crowded cities must have realized the effect 
produced on children by what they see and hear on 
their way to and from school. If we merely con- 
sider the bill boards with their realistic representa- 
tions, quite apart from the actual dramatic happen- 
ings in the street, we at once perceive that the ordi- 
nary school interests pale before such lurid appeals 
as these. How can we expect the child who has 
stood openmouthed before a poster representing a 
woman chloroformed by a burglar (while that hero 
escapes in safety with her jewels) to display any 
interest in the arid monotony of the multiplication 
table? The illegitimate excitement created by the 
sight of the depraved burglar can only be counter- 
acted by something equally exciting along the realis- 
tic but legitimate side of appeal; and this is where 
the story of the right kind becomes so valuable, and 
why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake 
the task can find the short path to results which 
theorists seek for so long in vain. It is not even 
necessary to have an exceedingly exciting story; 

105 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

sometimes one which will bring about pure reaction 
may be just as suitable. 

I remember in my personal experience an instance 
of this kind. I had been reading with some children 
of about ten years old the story from "Cymbeline" 
of Imogen in the forest scene, when the brothers 
strew flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge, 

Fear no more the heat of the sun. 

Just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, 
the door opened and one of the prefects announced 
in a loud voice the news of the relief of Mafeking. 
The children were on their feet at once, cheering 
lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief 
of the brave garrison was the predominant feeling. 
Then, before the jingo spirit had time to assert it- 
self, I took advantage of a momentary reaction and 
said : *'Now, children, don't you think we can pay 
England the tribute of going back to England's 
greatest poet?" In a few minutes we were back in 
the heart of the forest, and I can still hear the de- 
lightful intonation of those subdued voices re- 
peating. 

Golden lads and girls all must 

Like chimney-sweepers come to dust. 

It is interesting to note that the same problem that 
is exercising us today was a source of difficulty to. 
people in remote times. The following is taken 

io6 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

from an old Chinese document, and has particular 
interest for us at this time : 

"The philosopher, Mentius (born 371 b. c. ), was 
left fatherless at a very tender age and brought up 
by his mother, Changsi. The care of this prudent 
and attentive mother has been cited as a model for 
all virtuous parents. The house she occupied was 
near that of a butcher; she observed at the first cry 
of the animals that were being slaughtered, the little 
Mentius ran to be present at the sight, and that, on 
his return, he sought to Imitate what he had seen. 
Fearful lest his heart might become hardened, and 
accustomed to the sights of blood, she removed to 
another house which was In the neighborhood of a 
cemetery. The relations of those who were buried 
there came often to weep upon their graves, and 
make their customary libations. The lad soon took 
pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself 
by imitating them. This was a new subject of 
uneasiness to his mother: she feared her son might 
come to consider as a jest what is of all things the 
most serious, and that he might acquire a habit of 
performing with levity, and as a matter of routine 
merely, ceremonies which demand the most exact 
attention and respect. Again, therefore, she anx- 
iously changed the dwelling, and went to live In the 
city, opposite to a school, where her son found ex- 
amples the most worthy of imitation, and began to 
profit by them. This anecdote has become Incorpo- 

107 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

rated by the Chinese into a proverb, which they 
constantly quote : The mother of Mentius seeks a 
neighborhood." 

Another influence we have to counteract is that 
of newspaper headings and placards which catch the 
eye of children in the streets and appeal so power- 
fully to their imagination. 

Shakespeare has said : 

Tell me where is Fancy bred. 

Or in the heart, or in the head? 

How begot, how nourished? 

It is engendered in the eyes 

With gazing fed. 

And Fancy dies in the cradle where it lies. 

Let us all ring Fancy's knell. 

I'll begin it — ding, dong, bell. 

— "Merchant of Venice." 

If this be true, it is of importance to decide what 
our children shall look upon as far as we can con- 
trol the vision, so that we can form some idea of the 
effect upon their imagination. 

Having alluded to the dangerous influence of the 
street, I should hasten to say that this influence is 
very far from being altogether bad. There are pos- 
sibilities of romance in street life which may have 
just the same kind of effect on children as the tell- 
ing of exciting stories. I am indebted to Mrs. 
Arnold Glover, Honorary Secretary of the National 
Organization of Girls' Clubs,^ one of the most 
^ England. 

io8 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

widely informed people on this subject, for the two 
following experiences gathered from the streets and 
which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling: 

Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very 
poor neighborhood, and found, sitting on the door- 
step of the house, two little children, holding some- 
thing tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing 
with much expectancy towards the top of the street. 
She longed to know what they were doing, but not 
being one of those unimaginative and tactless folk 
who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's 
doings, she passed them at first in silence. It was 
only when she found them still in the same silent and 
expectant posture half an hour later that she said 
tentatively : "I wonder whether you would tell me 
what you are doing here?" After some hesitation, 
one of them said, in a shy voice : "We're waitin' for 
the barrer." It then transpired that, once a week, 
a vegetable- and flower-cart was driven through this 
particular street, on its way to a more prosperous 
neighborhood, and on a few red-letter days, a flower, 
or a sprig, or even a root sometimes fell out of the 
back of the cart; and these two little children were 
sitting there in hope, with their hands full of soil, 
ready to plant anything which might by some golden 
chance fall that way, in their secret garden of oyster 
shells. 

This seems to me as charming a fairy tale as any 
that our books can supply. 

109 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

On another occasion, Mrs. Glover was collecting 
the pennies for the Holiday Fund Savings Bank 
from the children who came weekly to her house. 
She noticed on three consecutive Mondays that one 
little lad deliberately helped himself to a new en- 
velope from her table. Not wishing to frighten or 
startle him, she allowed this to continue for some 
weeks, and then one day, having dismissed the 
other children, she asked him quite quietly why he 
was taking the envelopes. At first he was very 
sulky, and said : 'T need them more than you do." 
She quite agreed this might be, but reminded him 
that, after all, they belonged to her. She promised, 
however, that if he would tell her for what pur- 
pose he wanted the envelopes, she would endeavor 
to help him in the matter. Then came the as- 
tonishing announcement : "I am building a navy." 
After a little more gradual questioning, Mrs. 
Glover drew from the boy the information that 
the Borough water carts passed through the side 
street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then 
the envelope ships were made to sail on the water 
and pass under the covered ways which formed 
bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the "navy." 
Great was the excitement when the ships passed 
out of sight and were recognized as they arrived 
safely at the other end. Of course, the ex- 
penses in raw material were greatly diminished by 
the illicit acquisition of Mrs. Glover's property, 

no 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

and in this way she had unconsciously provided 
the neighborhood with a navy and a commander. 
Her first instinct, after becoming acquainted with 
the whole story, was to present the boy with a real 
boat, but on second thought she collected and gave 
him a number of old envelopes with names and ad- 
dresses upon them, which added greatly to the ex- 
citement of the sailing, because they could be more 
easily identified as they came out of the other end 
of the tunnel, and had their respective reputations 
as to speed. 

Here is Indeed food for romance, and I give both 
instances to prove that the advantages of street life 
are to be taken into consideration as well as the dis- 
advantages, though I think we are bound to admit 
that the latter outweigh the former. 

One of the immediate results of dramatic stories 
is the escape from the commonplace, to which I 
have already alluded in quoting Mr. Goschen's 
words. The desire for this escape is a healthy one, 
common to adults and children. When we wish to 
get away from our own surroundings and interests, 
we do for ourselves what I maintain we ought to do 
for children : we step into the land of fiction. It has 
always been a source of astonishment to me that, in 
trying to escape from our own everyday surround- 
ings, we do not step more boldly into the land of 
pure romance, which would form a real contrast to 
our everyday life, but, in nine cases out of ten, the 

III 



I 

\ 
V 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

fiction which is sought after deals with the subjects 
of our ordinary existence, namely, frenzied finance, 
sordid poverty, political corruption, fast society, and 
religious doubts. 

There is the same danger in the selection of fiction 
for children : namely, a tendency to choose very 
utilitarian stories, both in form and substance, so 
that we do not lift the children out of the common- 
place. I remember once seeing the titles of two 
little books, the contents of which were being read 
or told to children ; one was called, "Tom the Boot- 
black" ; the other, "Dan the Newsboy." My chief 
objection to these stories was the fact that neither 
of the heroes rejoiced in his work for the work's 
sake. Had Tom even invented a new kind of black- 
ing, or if Dan had started a newspaper, it might 
have been encouraging for those among the listeners 
who were thinking of engaging in similar profes- 
sions. It is true, both gentlemen amassed large for- 
tunes, but surely the school age is not to be limited 
to such dreams and aspirations as these! One 
wearies of the tales of boys who arrive in a town 
with one cent in their pocket and leave it as mil- 
lionaires, with the added importance of a mayor- 
alty. It is undoubtedly true that the romantic proto- 
type of these worthy youths is Dick Whittington, for 
whom we unconsciously cherish the affection which 
we often bestow on a far-ofif personage. Per- 
haps — 'who can say? — it is the picturesque ad-" 

112 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

jiinct of the cat, lacking to modern millionaires. 
I do not think it Utopian to present to children a 
fair share of stories which deal with the importance 
of things "untouched by hand." They, too, can 
learn at an early age that "the things which are seen 
are temporal, but the things which are unseen are 
spiritual." To those who- wish to try the effect of 
such stories on children, I present for their encour- 
agement the following lines from James Whitcomb 
Riley : 

THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN i 

Oh, the night was dark and the night was late, 

When the robbers came to rob him; 

And they picked the lock of his palace-gate. 

The robbers who came to rob him — 

They picked the lock of the palace-gate, 

Seized his jewels and gems of State, 

His coffers of gold and his priceless plate, — 

The robbers that came to rob him. 

But loud laughed he in the morning red! — ■ 
For of what had the robbers robbed him? 
Ho ! hidden safe', as he slept in bed. 
When the robbers came to rob him, — 
They robbed him not of a golden shred 
Of the childish dreams in his wise old head — 
"And they're welcome to all things else," he said. 
When the robbers came to rob him. 

* From "The Lockerbie Book," by James Whitcomb Riley, 
copyright, 191 1. Used by special permission of the publishers, 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 

113 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

There is a great deal of this romantic spirit, com- 
bined with a delightful sense of irresponsibility, 
which I claim above all things for small children, to 
be found in our old nursery rhymes. I quote from 
the following article written by the Rev. R. L. Gales 
for the Nation. 

After speaking on the subject of fairy stories be- 
ing eliminated from the school curriculum, the 
writer adds : 

"This would be lessening the joy of the world 
and taking from generations yet unborn the capacity 
for wonder, the power to take a large unselfish in- 
terest in the spectacle of things, and putting them 
forever at the mercy of small private cares. 

"A nursery rhyme is the most sane, the most un- 
selfish thing in the world. It calls up some delight- 
ful image — a little nut-tree with a silver walnut and 
a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for 
the child's delight and liberation from the bondage 
of unseeing dullness : it brings before the mind the 
quintessence of some good thing: 

" 'The little dog laughed to see such sport' — 
there is the soul of good humor, of sanity, of health 
in the laughter of that innocently wicked little dog. 
It is the laughter of pure frolic without unkindness. 
To have laughed with the little dog as a child is the 
best preservative against mirthless laughter in later 
years — the horse laughter of brutality, the ugly 
laughter of spite, the acrid laughter of fanaticism. 

114 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

The world of nursery rhymes, the old world of Mrs. 
Slipper-Slopper, is the world of natural things, of 
quick, healthy motion, of the joy of living. 

"In nursery rhymes the child is entertained with 
all the pageant of the world. It walks in fairy gar- 
dens, and for it the singing birds pass. All the 
King's horses and all the King's men pass before it 
in their glorious array. Craftsmen of all sorts, bak- 
ers, confectioners, silversmitjis, blacksmiths are 
busy for it with all their arts and mysteries, as at 
the court of an eastern King." 

In insisting upon the value of this escape from 
the commonplace, I cannot prove the importance of 
it more clearly than by showing what may happen to 
a child who is deprived of his birthright by having 
none of the fairy tale element presented to him. In 
"Father and Son," Mr. Edmund Gosse says : 

"Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found 
my greatest pleasure In the pages of books. The 
range of these was limited, for storybooks of every 
description were sternly excluded. No fiction of 
any kind, religious or secular, was admitted into the 
house. In this it was to my Mother, not to my 
Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a 
remarkable, I confess, to me somewhat unaccount- 
able impression that to 'tell a story,' that is, to com- 
pose fictitious narrative of any kind, was a sin. . . . 
Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse 
of Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they 

115 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

were not true. She would read nothing but lyrical 
and subjective poetry. As a child, however, she had 
possessed a passion for making up stories, and so 
considerable a skill in it, that she was constantly 
being begged to indulge others with its exercise. 
. . . 'When I was a very little child,' she says, T 
used to amuse myself and my brothers with in- 
venting stories such as I had read. Having, I 
suppose, a naturally restless mind and busy imagi- 
nation, this soon became the chief pleasure of my 
life. Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond 
of encouraging this propensity, and I found in Tay- 
lor, my maid, a still greater tempter. I had not 
known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore, 
a Calvinistic governess, finding it out, lectured me 
severely and told me it was wicked. From that 
time forth, I considered that to invent a story of 
any kind was a sin. . . . But the longing to do so 
grew with violence. . . . The simplicity of Truth 
was not enoLigh for me. I must needs embroider Im- 
agination upon it, and the vanity and wickedness 
which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to 
express.' This [the author, her son, adds] is surely 
a very painful instance of the repression of an in- 
stinct." 

In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it 
is good to recall the story of the great Hermite who, 
having listened to the discussion of the Monday 
sitting at the Academic des Sciences (Institut de 

ii6 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

France) as to the best way to teach the "young idea 
how to shoot" in the direction of mathematical 
genius, said: "Cultives I'imagination, messieurs. 
Tout est la. Si vous voiilez des matheinaticiens, 
donnc!2 a vos enfants a lire — des Contes de Fees." 

Another important effect of the story is to de- 
velop at an early age sympathy for children of other 
countries where conditions are different from our 
own. 

I have so constantly to deal with the question of 
confusion between truth and fiction in the minds of 
children that it might be useful to offer here an ex- 
ample of the way they make the distinction for 
themselves. 

Mrs. Ewing says on this subject: 

"If there are young intellects so Imperfect as to 
be incapable of distinguishing between fancy and 
falsehood, it Is most desirable to develop In them 
the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood, we 
appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as 
elders our care-clogged memories fail to recall." 

Mr. P. A. Barnett, In his book on the "Common- 
sense of Education," says, alluding to fairy-tales : 

"Children will act them but not act upon them, 
and they will not accept the Incidents as part of their 
effectual belief. They will imagine, to be sure, gro- 
tesque worlds, full of admirable and interesting per- 
sonages to whom strange things might have hap- 
pened. So much the better : this largeness of imag- 

117 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

ination is one of the possessions that distinguish 
the better nurtured child from others less fortu- 
nate." 

The following passage from Stevenson's essay on 
"Child Play" ^ will furnish an instance of children's 
aptitude for creating their own dramatic atmo- 
sphere : 

"When my cousin and I took our porridge of a 
morning, we had a device to enliven the course of a 
meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained it to 
be a country continually buried under snow. I took 
mine with milk, and explained it to be a country suf- 
fering gradual inundation. You can imagine us ex- 
changing bulletins; how here was an island still 
unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with 
snow ; what inventions were made ; how his popula- 
tion lived in cabins on perches and traveled on stilts, 
and how mine was always In boats ; how the interest 
grew furious as the last corner of safe ground was 
cut off on all sides and grew smaller every moment ; 
and how, in fine, the food was of altogether sec- 
ondary importance, and might even have been nause- 
ous, so long as we seasoned it with these dreams. 
But perhaps the most exciting moments I ever had 
over a meal were in the case of calf's foot jelly. It 
was hardly possible not to believe — and you may be 
quite sure, so far from trying, I did all I could to 
favor the illusion — that some part of it was hollow, 
^From "Virginibus Puerisque." 

ii8 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the 
secret tabernacle of that golden rock. There, might 
some Red-Beard await his hour; there might one 
find the treasures of the Forty Thieves. And so I 
quarried on slowl}^ with bated breath, savoring the 
interest. Believe me, I had little palate left for the 
jelly; and though I preferred the taste when I took 
cream with it, I used often to go without because the 
cream dimmed the transparent fractures." 

In his work on "Imagination," Ribot says : "The 
free initiative of children is always superior to the 
imitations we pretend to make for them." 

The passage from Robert Louis Stevenson be- 
comes more clear from a scientific point of view 
when taken in connection with one from Karl 
Groos' book on the "Psychology of Animal 
Play" : 

"The child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet 
under the ebb and flow of thought and feeling like 
still water under wind-swept waves, he has the 
knowledge that it is pretense after all. Behind the 
sham T' that takes part in the game, stands the un- 
changed T' which regards the sham T' with quiet 
superiority." 

Queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct 
phases of a child's imagination; it is "essentially a 
metamorphosis of reality, a transformation of places 
and things." 

Now, to return to the point which Mrs. Ewing 
119 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

makes, namely, that we should develop in normal 
children the power of distinguishing between truth 
and falsehood. 

I should suggest including two or three stories 
which would test that power in children, and if they 
fail to realize the difference between romancing and 
telling lies, then it is evident that they need special 
attention and help along this line. I give the titles 
of two stories of this kind in the collection at the 
end of the book.^ 

Thus far we have dealt only with the negative re- 
sults of stories, but there are more important effects, 
and I am persuaded that if we are careful in our 
choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation, so 
that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the mem- 
ory, we can unconsciously correct evil tendencies in 
children which they recognize in themselves only 
when they have already criticized them in the char- 
acters of the story. I have sometimes been misun- 
derstood on this point, and, therefore, I should like 
to make it quite clear. I do not mean that stories 
should take the place entirely of moral or direct 
teaching, but that on many occasions they could sup- 
plement and strengthen moral teaching, because the 
dramatic appeal to the imagination is quicker than 
the moral appeal to the conscience. A child will 
often resist the latter lest it should make him uur 
comfortable or appeal to his personal sense of re- 

^ See "Long Bow Story ;" "John and the Pig." 
I20 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

sponsibility : it is often not in his power to resist the 
former, because it has taken possession of him be- 
fore he is aware of it. 

As a concrete example, I offer three verses from 
a poem entitled, "A Ballad for a Boy," written some 
twelve years ago by W. Cory, an Eton master. The 
whole poem is to be found in a book of poems known 
as "lonica." ^ 

The poem describes a fight between two ships, the 
French ship, Tcmeraire, and the English ship, Que- 
bec. The English ship was destroyed by fire; Far- 
mer, the captain, was killed, and the officers taken 
prisoners : 

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer 

dead, 
And as the wounded captives passed each Breton bowed 

the head. 
Then spoke the French lieutenant : 
" 'Twas the fire that won, not we. 
You never struck your flag to iis; 
You'll go to England free." ^ 

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred 

seventy-nine, 
A year when nations ventured against us to combine, 

^ Published by George Allen & Co. 

^ This is even a higher spirit than that shown in the advice 
given in the "Agamemnon" (speaking of the victor's attitude 
after the taking of Troy) : 

"Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain 
Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed." 
121 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Quebec was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered 
not; 

But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not for- 
got. 

And you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear 

in mind 
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind; 
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to 

Brest, 
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest. 

But in all our stories, in order to produce desired 
effects we must refrain from holding, as Burroughs 
says, "a brief for either side," and we must let the 
people in the story be judged by their deeds and leave 
the decision of the children free in this matter.^ 

In a review of Ladd's "Psychology" in the Acad- 
emy, we find a passage which refers as much to the 
story as to the novel : 

"The psychological novelist girds up his loins and 
sets himself to write little essays on each of his 
characters. H he have the gift of the thing he may 
analyze motives with a subtlety which is more than 
their desert, and exhibit simple folk passing through 
the most dazzling rotations. If he be a novice, he is 
reduced to mere crude invention — the result in both 

^ It is curious to find that the story of "Puss-in-Boots" in 
its variants is sometimes presented with a moral, sometimes 
without. In the Valley of the Ganges it has none. In Cash- 
mere it has one moral, in Zanzibar another. 

122 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

cases is quite beyond the true purpose of Art. Art 
— when all is said and done — is a suggestion, and it 
refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it 
in detail, and you reduce it to a dead letter." 

Again, there is a sentence by Schopenhauer ap- 
plied to novels which would apply equally well to 
stories : 

"Skill consists in setting the inner life in motion 
with the smallest possible array of circumstances, 
for it is this inner life that excites our interest." 

In order to produce an encouraging and lasting 
effect by means of our stories, we should be careful 
to introduce a certain number from fiction where 
virtue is rewarded and vice punished, because to ap- 
preciate the fact that "virtue is its own reward" it 
takes a developed and philosophic mind, or a born 
saint, of whom there will not, I think, be many 
among normal children: a comforting fact, on the 
whole, as the normal teacher is apt to confuse them 
with prigs. 

A grande dame visiting an elementary school lis- 
tened to the telling of an exciting story from fiction, 
and was impressed by the thrill of delight which 
passed through the children. But when the story 
was finished, she said : "But oh ! what a pity the 
story was not taken from actual history!" 

Now, not only was this comment quite beside the 
mark, but the lady in question did not realize that 
pure fiction has one quality which history cannot 

123 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

have. The historian, bound by fact and accuracy, 
must often let his hero come to grief. . The poet (or, 
in this case we may call him, in the Greek sense, the 
"maker" of stories) strives to show ideal justice. 

What encouragement to virtue, except for the ab- 
normal child, can be offered by the stories of good 
men coming to grief, such as we find in Miltiades, 
Phocion, Socrates, Severus, Cicero, Cato and 
Caesar? 

Sir Philip Sydney says in his "Defence of Poesy" : 

"Only the poet declining to be held by the limita- 
tions of the lawyer, the historian, the grammarian, 
the rhetorician, the logician, the physician, the meta- 
physician is lifted up with the vigor of his own 
imagination ; doth grow in effect into another nature 
in making things either better than Nature bringeth 
forth or quite anew, as the Heroes, Demi-gods, Cy- 
clops, Furies and such like, so as he goeth hand-in- 
hand with Nature, not inclosed in the narrow range 
of her gifts but freely ranging within the Zodiac 
of his own art — her world is brazen; the poet only 
delivers a golden one." 

The effect of the story need not stop at the nega- 
tive task of correcting evil tendencies. There is the 
positive effect of translating the abstract ideal of 
the story into concrete action. 

I was told by Lady Henry Somerset that when 
the first set of children came down from London for 
a fortnight's holiday in the country, she was much 

124 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

startled and shocked by the obscenity of the games 
they played amongst themselves. Being a sound 
psychologist, Lady Henry wisely refrained from 
appearing surprised or from attempting any direct 
method of reptoof. "I saw," she said, "that the 
'goody' element would have no effect, so I changed 
the whole atmosphere by reading to them or telling 
them the most thrilling medieval tales without any 
commentary. By the end of the fortnight the ac- 
tivities had all changed. The boys were performing 
astonishing deeds of prowess, and the girls were al- 
lowing themselves to be rescued from burning 
towers and fetid dungeons." Now, if these deeds 
of chivalry appear somewhat stilted to us, we can at 
least realize that, having changed the whole at- 
mosphere of the filthy games, it is easier to translate 
the deeds into something a little more in accordance 
with the spirit of the age, and boys will more readily 
wish later on to save their sisters from dangers 
more sordid and commonplace than fiery towers and 
dark dungeons, if they have once performed the 
deeds in which they had to court danger and self- 
sacrifice for themselves. 

And now we come to the question as to how these 
effects are to be maintained. In what has already 
been stated as to the danger of introducing the dog- 
matic and direct appeal into the story, it is evident 
that the avoidance of this element is the first means 
of preserving the story in all its artistic force in the 

125 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

memory of the child. We must be careful, as I 
point out in the chapter on Questions, not to inter- 
fere by comment or question with the atmosphere 
we have made round the story, or else, in the future, 
that story will become blurred and overlaid with the 
remembrance, not of the artistic whole, as presented 
by the teller of the story, but by some unimportant 
small side issue raised by an irrelevant question or a 
superfluous comment. 

Many people think that the dramatization of the 
story by the children themselves helps to maintain 
the effect produced. Personally, I fear there is the 
same danger as in the immediate reproduction of the 
story, namely, that the general dramatic effect may 
be weakened. 

If, however, there is to be dramatization (and I 
do not wish to dogmatize on the subject), I think it 
should be confined to facts and not fancies, and this 
is why I realize the futility of the dramatization of 
fairy tales. 

Horace E. Scudder says on this subject : 

"Nothing has done more to vulgarize the fairy 
than its introduction on the stage. The charm of the 
fairy tale is its divorce from human experience : the 
charm of the stage is its realization in miniature of 
human life. H a frog is heard to speak, if a dog is 
changed before our eyes into a prince by having cold 
water dashed over it, the charm of the fairy tale has 
fled, and, in its place, we have the perplexing pleas- 

126 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

lire of legerdemain. Since the real life of a fairy 
is in the imagination, a wrong is committed when it 
is dragged from its shadowy hiding-place and made 
to turn into ashes under the calcium light of the 
understanding." ^ 

I am bound to admit that the teachers have a case 
when they plead for this reproducing of the story, 
and there are three arguments they use the validity 
of which I admit, but which have nevertheless not 
converted me, because the loss, to my mind, would 
exceed the gain. 

The first argument they put forward is that the 
reproduction of the story enables the child to en- 
large and improve his vocabulary. Now I greatly 
sympathize with this point of view, but, as I regard 
the story hour as a very precious and special one, 
which I think may have a lasting effect on the char- 
acter of a child, I do not think it important that, 
during this hour, a child should be called upon to 
improve his vocabulary at the expense of the dra- 
matic whole, and at the expense of the literary form 
in which the story has been presented. It would be 
like using the Bible for parsing or paraphrase or pro- 
nunciation. So far, I believe, the line has been 
drawn here, though there are blasphemers who have 
laid impious hands on Milton or Shakespeare for 
this purpose. 

^ From Hans Christian Andersen, in "Childhood in Litera- 
ture and Art." 

127 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

There are surely other lessons, as I have already 
said in dealing with the reproduction of the story 
quite apart from the dramatization, lessons more 
utilitarian in character, which can be used for this 
purpose : the facts of history (I mean the mere facts 
as compared with the deep truths), and those of 
geography. Above all, the grammar lessons are 
those in which the vocabulary can be enlarged and 
improved. But I am anxious to keep the story hour 
apart as dedicated to something higher than these 
excellent but utilitarian considerations. 

The second argument used by the teachers is the 
joy felt by the children in being allowed to dramatize 
the stories. This, too, appeals very strongly to me, 
but there is a means of satisfying their desire and 
yet protecting the dramatic whole, and that is oc- 
casionally to allow children to act out their own dra- 
matic inventions; this, to my mind, has great edu- 
cational significance : it is original and creative work 
and, apart from the joy of the immediate perform- 
ance, there is the interesting process of comparison 
which can be presented to the children, showing 
them the difference between their elementary at- 
tempts and the finished product of the experienced 
artist. This difference they can be led to recognize 
by their own powers of observation if the teach- 
ers are not in too great a hurry to point it out them- 
selves. 

Here is a short original story, quoted by the 
128 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

French psychologist, Queyrat, in his "Jeux de I'En- 
fance," written by a child of five : 

"One day I went to sea in a Hfe-boat — 'all at once 
I saw an enormous whale, and I jumped out of the 
boat to catch him, but he was so big that I climbed 
on his back and rode astride, and all the little fishes 
laughed to see." 

Here is a complete and exciting drama, making a 
wonderful picture and teeming with adventure. We 
could scarcely offer anything to so small a child for 
reproduction that would be a greater stimulus to the 
imagination. 

Here is another, offered by LotI, but the age of 
the child is not given : 

"Once upon a time a little girl out in the Colonies 
cut open a huge melon, and out popped a green beast 
and stung her, and the little child died." 

Loti adds : 

"The phrases 'out in the Colonies' and *a huge 
melon' were enough to plunge me suddenly into a 
dream. As by an apparition, I beheld tropical trees, 
forests alive with marvelous birds. Oh ! the simple 
magic of the words 'the Colonies' ! In my childhood 
they stood for a multitude of distant sun-scorched 
countries, with their palm-trees, their enormous 
flowers, their black natives, their wild beasts, their 
endless possibilities of adventure." 

I quote this in full because it shows so clearly the 
magic force of words to evoke pictures, without any 

129 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

material representation. It is just the opposite ef- 
fect of the pictures presented to the bodily eye with- 
out the splendid educational opportunity for the 
child to form his own mental image. 

I am more and more convinced that the rare 
power of visualization is accounted for by the lack 
of mental practice afforded along these lines. 

The third argument used by the teachers in favor 
of the dramatization of the stories is that it is a 
means of discovering how much the child has really 
learned from the story. Now this argument makes 
absolutely no appeal to me. 

My experience, in the first place, has taught me 
that a child very seldom gives out any account of a 
deep impression made upon him : it is too sacred and 
personal. But he very soon learns to know what is 
expected of him, and he keeps a set of stock sen- 
tences which he has found out are acceptable to the 
teacher. How can we possibly gauge the deep ef- 
fects of a story in this way, or how can a child, by 
acting out a story, describe the subtle elements which 
one has tried to introduce? One might as well try 
to show with a pint measure how the sun and rain 
have affected a plant, instead of rejoicing in the 
beauty of the sure, if slow, growth. 

Then, again, why are we in such a hurry to find 
out what effects have been produced by our stories ? 
Does it matter whether we know today or tomorrow 
how much a child has understood? For my part, 

130 



HOW TO OBTAIN EFFECT OF THE STORY 

so sure do I feel of the effect that I am wiHing to 
wait indefinitely. Only, I must make sure that the 
first presentation is truly dramatic and artistic. 

The teachers of general subjects have a much 
easier and more simple task. Those who teach sci- 
ence, mathematics, even, to a certain extent, history 
and literature, are able to gauge with a fair amount 
of accuracy by means of examination what their 
pupils have learned. The teaching carried on by 
means of stories can never be gauged in the same 
manner. 

Carlyle has said : 

"Of this thing be certain : wouldst thou plant for 
Eternity, then plant into the deep infinite faculties 
of man, his Fantasy and Heart. Wouldst thou plant 
for Year and Day, then plant into his shallow super- 
ficial faculties, his self-love and arithmetical under- 
standing, what will grow there." ^ 

If we use this marvelous art of story-telling in 
the way I have tried to show, then the children who 
have been confided to our care will one day be able 
to bring to its the tribute which Bjornson brought 
to Hans Christian Andersen : 

Wings you gave to my Imagination, 
Me uplifting to the strange and great; 

Gave my heart the poet's revelation. 
Glorifying things of low estate. 

^ "Sartor Resartus," Book III, page 218. 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

When my child-soul hungered all-unknowing, 
With great truths its need you satisfied: 

Now, a world-worn man, to you is owing 
That the child in me has never died. 

Translated from the Danish by Emilie Poulson. 



CHAPTER VII 

QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

The following questions have been put to me so 
often by teachers, in my own country and in Amer- 
ica, that I have thought it might be useful to give in 
my book some of the attempts I have made to an- 
swer them ; and I wish to record here an expression 
of gratitude to the teachers who have asked these 
questions at the close of my lectures. It has enabled 
me to formulate my views on the subject and to clear 
up, by means of research and thought, the reason for 
certain things which I had more or less taken for 
granted. It has also constantly modified my own 
point of view, and has prevented me from becoming 
too dogmatic in dealing with other people's methods. 

Question I : Why do I consider if necessary to 
spend so many years on the art of story-telling, 
which takes in, after all, such a restricted portion of 
literature? 

Just in the same way that an actor thinks it worth 
while to go through so many years' training to fit 
him for the stage, although dramatic literature is 

133 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

also only one branch of general literature. The 
region of story land is the legitimate stage for chil- 
dren. They crave drama as we do, and because 
there are comparatively few good story-tellers, chil- 
dren do not have their dramatic needs satisfied. 
What is the result? We either take them to dra- 
matic performances for grown-up people, or we have 
children's theaters where the pieces, charming as 
they may be, are of necessity deprived of the essen- 
tial elements which constitute a drama — or they are 
shriveled up to suit the capacity of the child. There- 
fore, it would seem wiser, while the children are 
quite young, to keep them to the simple presentation 
of stories, because with their imagination keener at 
that period, they have the delight of the inner vision 
and they do not need, as we do, the artificial stimulus 
provided by the machinery of the stage. 

Question H : What is to be done if a child asks 
you: ''Is the story true?" 

I hope I shall not be considered Utopian in my 
ideas if I say that it is quite easy, even with small 
children, to teach them that the seeing of truth is a 
relative matter which depends on the eyes of the 
seer. If we were not afraid to tell our children that 
all through life there are grown-up people who do 
not see things that others see, their own difficulties 
would be helped. 

In his "Imagination Creatrice," Queyrat says : 
134 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

"To get down into the recesses of a child's mind, 
one would have to become even as he is ; we are re- 
duced to interpreting- that child in the terms of an 
adult. The children we observe live and grow in a 
civilized community, and the result of this is that 
the development of their imagination is rarely free 
or complete, for as soon as it rises beyond the aver- 
age level, the rationalistic education of parents and 
schoolmasters at once endeavors to curb it. It is 
restrained in its flight by an antagonistic power 
which treats it as a kind of incipient madness." 

It is quite easy to show children that if one keeps 
things where they belong, they are true with regard 
to each other, but that if one drags these things out 
of the shadowy atmosphere of the "make-believe," 
and forces them into the land of actual facts, the 
whole thing is out of gear. 

To take a concrete example : The arrival of the 
coach made from a pumpkin and driven by mice is 
entirely in harmony with the Cinderella surround- 
ings, and I have never heard one child raise any 
question of the difficulty of traveling in such a coach 
or of the uncertainty of mice in drawing it. But, 
suggest to the child that this diminutive vehicle could 
be driven among the cars of Broadway, or amongst 
the motor omnibuses in the Strand, and you would 
bring confusion at once into his mind. 

Having once grasped this, the children will lose 
the idea that fairy stories are just for them, and not 

135 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

for their elders, and from this they will go on to see 
that it is the child-like mind of the poet and seer that 
continues to appreciate these things; that it is the 
dull, heavy person whose eyes so soon become dim 
and unable to see any more the visions which were 
once his own. 

In his essay on "Poetry and Life" (Glasgow, 
1889), Professor Bradley says: 

"It is the effect of poetry, not only by expressing 
emotion but in other ways also, to bring life into the 
dead mass of our experience, and to make the world 
significant." 

This applies to children as well as to adults. There 
may come to the child in the story hour, by some 
stirring poem or dramatic narration, a sudden flash 
of the possibilities of life which he had not hitherto 
realized in the even course of school experience. 

"Poetry," says Professor Bradley, "is a way of 
representing truth ; but there is in it, as its detractors 
have always insisted, a certain untruth or illusion. 
We need not deny this, so long as we remember that 
the illusion is conscious, that no one wishes to de- 
ceive, and that no one is deceived. But it would be 
better to say that poetry is false to literal fact for 
the sake of obtaining a higher truth. First, in order 
to represent the connection between a more signifi- 
cant part of experience and a less significant, poetry, 
instead of Hnking them together by a chain which 
touches one by one the intermediate objects 

136 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

that connect them, leaps from one to the other. 
It thus falls at once into conflict with common- 
sense." 

Now, the whole of this passage bears as much on 
the question of the truth embodied in a fairy tale as 
a poem, and it would be interesting to take some of 
these tales and try to discover where they are false 
to actual fact for the sake of a higher truth. 

Let us take, for instance, the Story of Cinderella : 
The coach and pumpkins to which I have alluded, 
and all the magic part of the story, are false to actual 
facts as we meet them in our everyday life ; but is it 
not a higher truth that Cinderella could escape from 
her chimney corner by thinking of the brightness 
outside? In this sense we all travel in pumpkin 
coaches. 

Take the Story of Psyche, in any one of the many 
forms it is presented to us in folk-story. The magic 
transformation of the lover is false to actual fact; 
but is it not a higher truth that we are often trans- 
formed by circumstance, and that love and courage 
can overcome most difficulties ? 

Take the Story of the Three Bears. It is not in 
accordance with established fact that bears should 
extend hospitality to children who invade their ter- 
ritory. Is it not true in a higher sense that fearless- 
ness often lessens or averts danger? 

Take the Story of Jack and the Bean Stalk. The 
rapid growth of the bean stalk and the encounter 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

with the giant are false to Hteral fact ; but is it not a 
higher truth that the spirit of courage and high ad- 
venture leads us straight out of the commonplace 
and often sordid facts of life? 

Now, all these considerations are too subtle for 
the child, and, if offered in explanation, would de- 
stroy the excitement and interest of the story; but 
they are good for those of us who are presenting 
such stories : they provide not only an argument 
against the objection raised by unimaginative people 
as to the futility, if not immorality, of presenting 
these primitive tales, but clear up our own doubt 
and justify us in the use of them, if we need such 
justification. 

For myself, I am perfectly satisfied that, being 
part of the history of primitive people, it would be 
foolish to ignore them from an evolutionary point 
of view, which constitutes their chief importance; 
and it is only from the point of view of expediency 
that I mention the potential truths they contain. 

Question HI : What are you to do if a child 
says he does not like fairy tales? 

This is not an uncommon case. What we have 
first to determine, under these circumstances, is 
.whether this dislike springs from a stolid, prosaic 
nature, whether it springs from a real inability to 
visualize such pictures as the fairy or marvelous ele- 
ment in the story presents, or whether (and this is 

138 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

often the real reason) it is from a fear of being 
asked to believe what his judgment resents as un- 
true, or whether he thinks it is "grown-up" to reject 
such pleasure as unworthy of his years. 

In the first case, it is wise to persevere, in hopes 
of developing the dormant imagination. If the child 
resents the apparent want of truth, we can teach him 
how many-sided truth is, as I suggested in my an- 
swer to the first question. In the other cases, we 
must try to make it clear that the delight he may 
venture to take now will increase, not decrease, with 
years ; that the more one brings to a thing, in the way 
of experience and knowledge, the more one will 
draw out of it. 

Let us take as a concrete example the question of 
Santa Claus. This joy has almost disappeared, for 
we have torn away the last shred of mystery about 
that personage by allowing him to be materialized 
in the Christmas shops and bazaars. 

But the original myth need never have disap- 
peared ; the link could easily have been kept by grad- 
ually telling the child that the Santa Claus they wor- 
shiped as a mysterious and invisible power is nothing 
but the spirit of charity and kindness that makes us 
remember others, and that this spirit often takes the 
form of material gifts. We can also lead them a 
step higher and show them that this spirit of kind- 
ness can do more than provide material things; so 
that the old nursery tale has laid a beautiful foun- 

139 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

dation which need never be pulled up : we can build 
upon it and add to it all through our lives. 

Is not one of the reasons that children reject fairy 
tales this, that such very poor material is offered 
them? There is a dreary flatness about all except 
the very best which revolts the child of literary ap- 
preciation and would fail to strike a spark in the 
more prosaic. 

Question IV : Do I recommend learning a story 
by heart, or telling it in one's own words? 

This would largely depend on the kind of story. 
If the style is classic or if the interest of the story is 
closely connected with the style, as in Andersen, 
Kipling or Stevenson, then it is better to commit it 
absolutely to memory. But if this process should 
take too long (I mean for those who cannot afford 
the time to specialize), or if it produces a stilted 
effect, then it is wiser to read the story many times 
over, let it soak in, taking notes of certain passages 
which would add to the dramatic interest of the 
story, and not trouble about the word accuracy of 
the whole. 

For instance, for very young children the story of 
Pandora, as told in the "Wonder-Book," could be 
shortened so as to leave principally the dramatic 
dialogue between the two children, which could be 
easily committed to memory by the narrator and 
would appeal most directly to the children. Or for 

140 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

older children: in taking a beautiful medieval story- 
such as "Our Lady's Tumbler," retold by Wick- 
stead, the original text could hardly be presented so 
as to hold an audience ; but while giving up a great 
deal of the elaborate material, we should try to pre- 
sent many of the characteristic passages which seem 
to sum up the situation. For instance, before his 
performance, the Tmnbler cries : "What am I do- 
ing? For there is none here so caitiff but who vies 
with all the rest in serving God after his trade." 
And after his act of devotion: "Lady, this is a 
choice performance. I do it for no other but for 
you ; so aid me God, I do not — for you and for your 
Son. And this I dare avouch and boast, that for 
me it is no play-work. But I am serving you, and 
that pays me." 

On the other hand, there are some very gifted 
narrators who can only tell the story in their own 
words. I consider that both methods are necessary 
to the all-round story-teller. 

Question V : How do I set about preparing a 
story f 

Here again the preparation depends a great deal 
on the kind of story : whether it has to be committed 
to memory or rearranged to suit a certain age of 
child, or told entirely in one's own words. But there 
is one kind of preparation which is the same for any 
story, that is, living with it for a long time, until one 

141 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

has really obtained the right atmosphere, and then 
bringing the characters actually to life in this at- 
mosphere, especially in the case of inanimate ob- 
jects. This is where Hans Christian Andersen 
reigns supreme. Horace Scudder says of him: "By 
some transmigration, souls have passed into tin sol- 
diers, balls, tops, money-pigs, coins, shoes and even 
such attenuated things as darning-needles, and when, 
informing these apparent dead and stupid bodies, 
they begin to make manifestations, it is always in 
perfect consistency with the ordinary conditions of 
the bodies they occupy, though the several objects 
become, by the endowment of souls, suddenly ex- 
panded in their capacity." ^ 

Now, my test of being ready with such stories is 
whether I have ceased to look upon such objects as 
inanimate. Let us take some of those quoted from 
Andersen. First, the Tin Soldier. To me, since I 
have lived in the story, he is a real live hero, holding 
his own with some of the bravest fighting heroes in 
history or fiction. As for his being merely of tin, I 
entirely forget it, except when I realize against what 
odds he fights, or when I stop to admire the wonder- 
ful way Andersen carries out his simile of the old 
tin spoon — the stiffness of the musket, and the tears 
of tin. 

Take the Top and the Ball, and, except for the de- 
lightful way they discuss the respective merits of 

^ From "Childhood in Literature and Art." 
142 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

cork and mahogany in their ancestors, you would 
completely forget that they are not real human be- 
ings with the live passions and frailties common to 
youth. 

As for the Beetle — who ever thinks of him as a 
mere entomological specimen ? Is he not the symbol 
of the self-satisfied traveler who learns nothing en 
route but the importance of his own personality? 
And the Darning-Needle f It is impossible to di- 
vorce human interest from the ambition of this little 
piece of steel. 

And this same method applied to the preparation 
of any story shows that one can sometimes rise from 
the role of mere interpreter to that of creator — that 
is to say, the objects live afresh for you in response 
to the appeal you make in recognizing their possi- 
bilities of vitality. 

As a mere practical suggestion, I would advise 
that, as soon as one has overcome the difficulties of 
the text (if actually learning by heart, there is noth- 
ing but the drudgery of constant repetition), and as 
one begins to work the story into true dramatic 
form, always say the words aloud, and many times 
aloud, before trying them even on one person. More 
suggestions come to one in the way of effects from 
hearing the sounds of the words, and more complete 
mental pictures, in this way than any other — it is a 
sort of testing period, the results of which may or 
may not have to be modified when produced in pub- 

143 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

He. In case of committing to memory, I advise word 
perfection first, not trying dramatic effects before 
this is reached; but, on the other hand, if you are 
using your own words, you can think out the effects 
as you go along — I mean, during the preparation. 
Gestures, pauses, facial expression often help to fix 
the choice of words one decides to use, though here 
again the public performance will often modify the 
result. I strongly advise that all gestures be studied 
before the glass, because this most faithfully record- 
ing friend, whose sincerity we dare not question, 
will prevent glaring errors, and also help by the 
correction of these to more satisfactory results along 
positive lines. If your gesture does not satisfy you 
(and practice will make one more and more criti- 
cal), it is generally because you have not made suffi- 
cient allowance for the power of imagination in 
your audience. Emphasis in gesture is just as in- 
artistic — and therefore ineffective — as emphasis in 
tone or language. 

Before deciding, however, either on the facial ex- 
pression or gesture, we must consider the chief char- 
acters in the story, and study how we can best — not 
present them, but allow them to present themselves, 
which is a very different thing. The greatest tribute 
which can be paid to a story-teller, as to an actor, is 
that his own personality is temporarily forgotten, 
because he has so completely identified himself with 
his role. 

144 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

When we have decided what the chief characters 
really mean to do, we can let ourselves go in the 
impersonation. 

I shall now take a story as a concrete example, 
namely, the Buddhist legend of the "Lion and the 
Hare." * 

We have here the Lion and the Hare as types — 
the other animals are less individual and therefore 
display less salient qualities. The little hare's chief 
characteristics are nervousness, fussiness and mis- 
directed imagination. We must bear this all in mind 
when she appears on the stage — fortunately these 
characteristics lend themselves easily to dramatic 
representation. The Lion is not only large-hearted 
but broad-minded. It is good to have an opportunity 
of presenting to the children a lion who has other 
qualities than physical beauty or extraordinary- 
strength (here again there will lurk the danger of 
alarming the nature students). He is even more in- 
teresting than the magnanimous lion whom we have 
sometimes been privileged to meet in fiction. 

Of course we grown-up people know that the 
Lion is the Buddha in disguise. Children will not 
be able to realize this, nor is it the least necessary 
that they should do so ; but they will grasp the idea 
that he is a very unusual lion, not to be met with in 
Paul Du Chaillu's adventures, still less in the quasi- 
domestic atmosphere of the Zoological Gardens. If 

* See "Eastern Stories and Fables," published by Routledge. 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

our presentation is life-like and sincere, we shall 
convey all we intend to the child. This is part of 
what I call the atmosphere of the story, which, as in 
a photograph, can only be obtained by long expo- 
sure, that is to say, in the case of preparation we 
must bestow much reflection and sympathy. 

Because these two animals are the chief charac- 
ters, they must stand out in sharp outline : the other 
animals must be painted in fainter colors — they 
should be suggested rather than presented in detail. 
It might be as well to give a definite gesture to the 
Elephant — say, a characteristic movement with his 
trunk — a scowl to the Tiger, a supercilious and enig- 
matic smile to the Camel (suggested by Kipling's 
wonderful creation). But if a gesture were given 
to each of the animals, the effect would become mo- 
notonous, and the minor characters would crowd the 
foreground of the picture, impeding the action and 
leaving little to the imagination of the audience. I 
personally have found it effective to repeat the ges- 
tures of these animals as they are leaving the 
stage, but less markedly, as it is only a form of re- 
minder. 

Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on 
the mind of the child, apart from the dramatic joy 
and interest we have endeavored to provide ? Surely 
it is that he may realize the danger of a panic. One 
method of doing this (alas! a favorite one still) is 
to say at the end of the story : "Now, children, what 

146 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

do we learn from this?" Of this method Lord Mor- 
ley has said: "It is a commonplace to the wise, 
and an everlasting puzzle to the foolish, that direct 
inculcation of morals should invariably prove so 
powerless an instrument, so futile a method." 

If this direct method were really effective, we 
might as well put the little drama aside, and say 
plainly: "It is foolish to be nervous; it is danger- 
ous to make loose statements. Large-minded people 
understand things better than those who are narrow- 
minded." 

All these abstract statements would be as true and 
as tiresome as the multiplication table. The child 
might or might not fix them in his mind, but he 
would not act upon them. 

But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are 
capable into the presentation of the story, and, with- 
out one word of comment from you, the children 
will feel the dramatic intensity of that vast con- 
course of animals brought together by the feeble ut- 
terance of one irresponsible little hare. Let them 
feel the dignity and calm of the LioUj which ac- 
counts for his authority; his tender but firm treat- 
ment of the foolish little Hare; and listen to the 
glorious finale when all the animals retire convinced 
of their folly; and you will find that you have 
adopted the same method as the Lion (who must 
have been an unconscious follower of Froebel), and 
that there is nothing to add to the picture. 

147 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Question VI: Is it wise to talk over a story 
with children and to encourage them in the habit of 
asking questions about it? 

At the time, no ! The effect produced is to be by 
dramatic means, and this would be destroyed by any 
attempt at analysis by means of questions. 

The medium that has been used in the telling of 
the story is (or ought to be) a purely artistic one 
which will reach the child through the medium of 
the emotions : the appeal to the intellect or the reason 
is a different method, which must be used at a dif- 
ferent time. When you are enjoying the fragrance 
of a flower or the beauty of its color, it is not the 
moment to be reminded of its botanical classification, 
just as in the botany lesson it would be somewhat 
irrelevant to talk of the part that flowers play in the 
happiness of life. 

From a practical point of view, it is not wise to 
encourage questions on the part of the children, be- 
cause they are apt to disturb the atmosphere by 
bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in 
looking back on the telling of the story, the child 
often remembers the irrelevant conversation to the 
exclusion of the dramatic interest of the story it- 
self.i 

I remember once making what I considered at the 
time a most effective appeal to some children who 

^See Chapter I. 

148 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

had been listening to the Story of the Little Tin 
Soldier, and, unable to refrain from the cheap 
method of questioning, of which I have now recog- 
nized the futility, I asked : ''Don't you think it was 
nice of the little dancer to rush down into the fire 
to join the brave little soldier?" "Well," said a 
prosaic little lad of six: "I thought the draught 
carried her down." 

Question VII : Is it wise to call upon children 
to repeat the story as soon as it has been told? 

My answer here is decidedly in the negative. 

While fully appreciating the modern idea of chil- 
dren expressing themselves, I very much deprecate 
this so-called self-expression taking the form of 
mere reproduction. I have dealt with this matter in 
detail in another portion of my book. This is one 
of the occasions when children should be taking in, 
not giving out (even the most fanatic of moderns 
must agree that there are such moments). 

When, after much careful preparation, an expert 
has told a story to the best of his ability, to encour- 
age the children to reproduce this story with their 
imperfect vocabulary and with no special gift of 
speech (I am always alluding to the normal group 
of children) is as futile as if, after the performance 
of a musical piece by a great artist, some individual 
member of the audience were to be called upon to 
give his rendering of the original rendering. The 

149 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

result would be that the musical joy of the audience 
would be completely destroyed and the performer 
himself would share in the loss.^ 

I have always maintained that five minutes of 
complete silence after the story would do more to 
fix the impression on the mind of the child than any 
amount of attempt at reproducing it. The general 
statement made in Dr. Montessori's wonderful 
chapter on "Silence" would seem to me of special 
application to the moments following on the telling 
of a story. 

Question VHI : Should children he encouraged 
to illustrate the stories which they have heard? 

As a dramatic interest to the teachers and the 
children, I think it is a very praiseworthy experi- 
ment, if used somewhat sparingly. But I seriously 
doubt whether these illustrations in any way indi- 
cate the impression made on the mind of the child. 
It is the same question that arises when that child 
is called upon, or expresses a wish, to reproduce the 
story in his own words : the unfamiliar medium in 
both instances makes it almost impossible for the 
child to convey his meaning, unless he is an artist in 
the one case or he has real literary power of ex- 
pression in the other. 

^ In this matter I have, in England, the support of Dr. Kim- 
mins, Chief Inspector of Education in the London County 
Council, who is strongly opposed to the immediate reproduc- 
tion of stories. 

150 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

My own impression, confirmed by many teachers 
who have made the experiment, is that a certain 
amount of disappointment is mixed up with the dar- 
ing joy in the attempt, simply because the children 
can get nowhere near the ideal which has presented 
itself to the "inner eye." 

I remember a kindergarten teacher saying that 
on one occasion, when she had told to the class a 
thrilling story of a knight, one of the children im- 
mediately asked for permission to draw a picture of 
him on the blackboard. So spontaneous a request 
could not, of course, be refused, and^ full of assur- 
ance, the would-be artist began to give his impres- 
sion of the knight's appearance. When the picture 
w^as finished, the child stood back for a moment to 
judge for himself of the result. He put down the 
chalk and said sadly: "And I tJwught he was so 
handsome." 

Nevertheless, except for the drawback of the 
other children seeing a picture which might be in- 
ferior to their own mental vision, I should quite ap- 
prove of such experiments, as long as they are not 
taken as literal data of what the children have really 
received. It would, however, be better not to have 
the picture drawn on a blackboard but at the child's 
private desk, to be seen by the teacher and not, un- 
less the picture were exceptionally good, to be shown 
to the other children. 

One of the best effects of such an experiment 

151 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

would be to show a child how difficult it is to give 
the impression one wishes to record, and which 
would enable him later on to appreciate the beauty 
of such work in the hands of a finished artist. 

I can anticipate the jeers with which such remarks 
would be received by the Futurist School, but, ac- 
cording to their own theory, I ought to be allowed 
to express the matter as I see it, however faulty the 
vision may appear to them.^ 

Question IX : In what way can the dramatic 
method of story-telling be used in ordinary class 
teaching F 

This is too large a question to answer fully In so 
general a survey as this work, but I should like to 
give one or two examples as to how the element of 
story-telling could be introduced. 

I have always thought that the only way in which 
we could make either a history or literature lesson 
live, so as to take a real hold on the mind of the 
pupil at any age, would be that, instead of offering 
lists of events, crowded into the fictitious area of 
one reign, one should take a single event, say in one 
lesson out of five, and give it in the most splendid 
language and in the most dramatic manner. 

^ These remarks refer only to the illustrations of stories 
told. Whether children should be encouraged to self-expres- 
sion in drawing (quite apart from reproducing in one medium 
what has been conveyed to them in another), is too large a 
question to deal with in this special work on story-telling. 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

To come to a concrete example : Supposing that 
one is talking to the class of Greece, either in con- 
nection with its history, its geography or its litera- 
ture, could any mere accumulation of facts give a 
clearer idea of the life of the people than a dramati- 
cally told story from Homer, ^schylus, Sophocles 
or Euripides? 

What in the history of Iceland could give any 
more graphic idea of the whole character of the life 
and customs of the inhabitants than one of the 
famous sagas, such as "The Burning of Njal" or 
"The Death of Gunnar" ? 

In teaching the history of Spain, what could make 
the pupils understand better the spirit of knight-er- 
rantry, its faults and its qualities, than a recital 
from "Don Quixote" or from the tale of "The 
Cid"? 

In a word, the stories must appeal so vividly to 
the imagination that they will light up the whole 
period of history which we wish them to illustrate 
and keep it alive in the memory for all time. 

But quite apart from the dramatic presentation of 
history, there are very great possibilities for the 
short story introduced into the portrait of some 
great personage, insignificant in itself, but which 
throws a sudden sidelight on his character, show- 
ing the mind behind the actual deeds; this is what 
I mean by using the dramatic method. 

To take a concrete example : Suppose, in giving 
153 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

an account of the life of Napoleon, after enlarging 
upon his campaigns, his European policy, his in- 
domitable will, one were suddenly to give an idea of 
his many-sidedness by relating how he actually 
found time to compile a catechism which was used 
for some years in the elementary schools of France. 
What sidelights might be thrown in this way on 
such characters as Nero, Caesar, Henry VHI, Lu- 
ther, Goethe! 

To take one example from these: Instead of 
making the whole career of Henry VHI center 
round the fact that he was a much-married man, 
could we not present his artistic side and speak of 
his charming contributions to music ? 

So much for the history lessons. But could not 
the dramatic form and interest be introduced into 
our geography lessons? Think of the romance of 
the Panama Canal, the position of Constantinople, 
as affecting the history of Europe, the shape of 
Greece, England as an island, the position of Thibet, 
the interior of Africa — to what wonderful story- 
telling would these themes lend themselves ! 

Question X : Which should predominate in the 
story — the dramatic or the poetic element? 

This Is a much debated point. From experience 
I have come to the conclusion that, though both 
should be found in the whole range of stories, the 
dramatic element should prevail from the very na- 

154 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

ture of the presentation, and also because it reaches 
the larger number of children, at least of normal 
children. Almost every child is dramatic, in the 
sense that it loves action (not necessarily an action 
in which it has to bear a part) . It is the exceptional 
child who is reached by the poetic side, and just as 
on the stage the action must be quicker and more 
concentrated than in a poem — than even a dramatic 
poem — so it must be with the story. Children act 
out in their imagination the dramatic or actable part 
of the story — the poetical side, which must be 
painted in more delicate colors or presented in less 
obvious form, often escapes them. Of course, the 
very reason why we must include the poetical ele- 
ment is that it is an unexpressed need of most chil- 
dren. Their need of the dramatic is more loudly 
proclaimed and more easily satisfied. 

Question XI : What is the educational value 
of humor in the stories told to our children? 

My answer to this is that humor means so much 
more than is usually understood by this term. So 
many people seem to think that to have a sense of 
humor is merely to be tickled by a funny element in 
a story. It surely means something much more 
subtle than this. It is Thackeray who says: "If 
humor only meant laughter, but the humorist pro- 
fesses to awaken and direct your love, your pity, 
your kindness, your scorn for untruth and preten- 

155 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

sion, your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the 
oppressed, the unhappy." So that, in our stories, 
the introduction of humor should not merely de- 
pend on the doubtful amusement that follows on a 
sense of incongruity. It should inculcate a sense 
of proportion brought about by an effort of imagina- 
tion; it shows a child its real position in the uni- 
verse and prevents an exaggerated idea of his own 
importance. It develops the logical faculty, and 
prevents hasty conclusions. It shortens the period 
of joy in horse-play and practical jokes. It brings 
about a clearer perception of all situations, enabling 
the child to get the point of view of another person. 
It is the first instilling of philosophy into the mind 
of a child and prevents much suffering later on when 
the blows of life fall upon him; for a sense of hu- 
mor teaches us at an early age not to expect too 
much: and this philosophy can be developed with- 
out cynicism or pessimism, without even destroying 
the joie de vivre. 

One cannot, however, sufficiently emphasize the 
fact that these far-reaching results can be brought 
about only by humor quite distinct from the broader 
fun and hilarity which have also their use in an 
educational scheme. 

From my own experience, I have learned that 
development of humor is with most children ex- 
tremely slow. It is quite natural and quite right 
that at first pure fun, obvious situations and elemen- 

156 



QUESTIONS ASKED BY TEACHERS 

tary jokes should please them, but we can very grad- 
ually appeal to something more subtle, and if I 
were asked what story would educate our children 
most thoroughly in appreciation of humor, I should 
say that "Alice in Wonderland" was the most ef- 
fective. 

What better object lesson could be given in hu- 
morous form of taking somebody else's point of 
view than that given to Alice by the Mock Turtle in 
speaking of the Whiting f — 

"You know what they're like?" 

"I believe so," said Alice. "They have their tails in 
their mouths — and they're all over crumbs." 

"You're wrong about the crumbs," said the Mock Turtle. 
"Crumbs would all wash off in the sea." 

Or when Alice is speaking to the Mouse of her 
cat, and says : 

"She is such a dear quiet thing — and a capital one for 

catching mice " and then suddenly realizes the point 

of view of the Mouse, who was "trembling down to the 
end of its tail." 

Then, as an instance of how a lack of humor leiads 
to illogical conclusons (a condition common to most 
children), we have the conversation between Alice 
and the Pigeon: 

Alice: "But little girls eat quite as much as serpents 
do, you know." 

Pigeon : "I don't believe it. But if they do, why then 
they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say." 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Then, as an instance of how a sense of humor 
would prevent too much self-importance : 

"I have a right to think," said Alice sharply. 
"Just about as much right," said the Duchess, "as pigs 
have to fly." 



PART II 
THE STORIES 



159 



The following stories do not form a comprehen- 
sive selection; this I have endeavored to give in the 
List of Stories. The stories given are chiefly 
taken from my own repertoire, and have been so 
constantly asked for by teachers that I am glad of 
an opportunity of presenting them in full. 

I regret that I have been unable to furnish many 
of the stories I consider good for narration, but the 
difficulty of obtaining permission has deterred me 
from further efforts in this direction. 



STURLA, THE HISTORIAN* 

Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, 
and his name was put on the list. He went on board 
before many men had come ; he had a sleeping bag 
and a travelling chest, and took his place on the 
foredeck. A little later the king came on to the 
quay, and a company of men with him. Sturla 
rose and bowed, and bade the king "hail," but the 
king answered nothing, and went aft along the ship 
to the quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go 
south along the coast. But in the evening when men 
unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still, and no one 
invited him to mess. Then a servant of the king's 
came and asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. 
Sturla said "No." Then the king's servant went to 
the king and spoke with him, out of hearing, and 
then went forward to Sturla and said : "You shall 
go to mess with Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw." 
They took him into their mess, but rather stiffly. 
When men were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the 
king's asked who should tell them stories. There 

*I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker in 
his Romanes lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to those 
who develop the art of story-telling. 

161 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

was little answer. Then said he : "Sturla the Ice- 
lander, will you tell stories?" "As you will," said 
Sturla. So he told them the story of Huld, better 
and fuller than any one there had ever heard it told 
before. Then many men pushed forward to the 
fore-deck, wanting to hear as clearly as might be, 
and there was a great crowd. The queen asked: 
"What is that crowd on deck there?" A man an- 
swered : "The men are listening to the story that 
the Icelander tells." "What story is that?" said she. 
He answers : "It is about a great troll-wife, and it 
is a good story and well told." The king bade her 
pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She says : "I 
think this Icelander must be a good fellow, and less 
to blame than he is reported." The king was silent. 
So the night passed, and the next morning there 
was no wind for them, and the king's ship lay in the 
same place. Later in the day, when men sat at their 
drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla. 
Sturla's messmates were pleased with this: "You 
bring better luck than we thought, if this sort of 
thing goes on." After dinner the queen sent for 
Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the 
troll-wife story along with him. So Sturla went 
aft to the quarter-deck, and greeted the king and 
queen. The king answered little, the queen well and 
cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he 
had told overnight. He did so, for a great part of 
the day. When he had finished, the queen thanked 

162 



STURLA, THE HISTORIAN 

him, and many others besides, and made him out in 
their minds to be a learned man and sensible. But 
the king said nothing ; only he smiled a little. Sturla 
thought he saw that the king's whole frame of mind 
was brighter than the day before. So he said to the 
king that he had made a poem about him, and an- 
other about his father : "I would gladly get a hear- 
ing for them." The queen said : "Let him recite his 
poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and his 
poem will be excellent." The king bade him say on, 
if he would, and repeat the poem he professed to 
have made about him. Sturla chanted it to the end. 
The queen said : "To my mind that is a good poem." 
The king said to her : "Can you follow the poem 
clearly?" "I would be fain to have you think so, 
Sir," said the queen. The king said : "I have 
learned that Sturla is good at verses." Sturla took 
his leave of the king and queen and went to his 
place. There was no sailing for the king all that 
day. In the evening before he went to bed he sent 
for Sturla. And when he came he greeted the king 
and said: "What will you have me to do, Sir?" 
The king called for a silver goblet full of wine, and 
drank some and gave it to Sturla and said: "A 
health to a friend in wine!" (Vin skal til mnar 
drekka). Sturla said: "God be praised for it!" cItuh) 
"Even so," says the king, "and now I wish you to 
say the poem you have made about my father." 
Sturla repeated it : and when it was finished men 




THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

praised it much, and most of all the queen. The 
king said : "To my thinking, you are a better reciter 
than the Pope." 

Sturlunga Saga, vol. ii, p. 269. 



A SAGA 

In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the 
flower of justice had rooted in the heart, there Hved 
among the daughters of men two children, sisters, 
of one house. 

In childhood did they leap and climb and swim 
with the men children of their race, and were nur- 
tured on the same stories of gods and heroes. 

In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden 
might and more — delve could they no less than spin, 
hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and helm 
ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all dan- 
ger and laugh at all pain. 

Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the 
days and years of their youth came and went. 
Death had spared their house, and unhappiness 
knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they 
sat before sleep round the hearth of red fire, listen- 
ing with the household to the brave songs of gods 
and heroes, there would surely creep into their hearts 
a shadow — the thought that whatever the years of 
their lives, and whatever the generous deeds, there 
would for them, as women, be no escape at the last 
from the dire mists of Hela, the fogland beyond the 

165 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

grave for all such as die not in battle ; no escape for 
them from Hela, and no place for ever for them or 
for their kind among the glory-crowned, sword- 
shriven heroes of echoing Valhalla. 

That shadow had first fallen in their lusty child- 
hood, had slowly gathered darkness through the 
overflowing days of maidenhood, and now, in the 
strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their 
future as the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the 
sun. 

But stout were they to face danger and laugh at 
pain, and for all the shadow upon their hope they 
lived brave and songful days^ — the one a homekeeper 
and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhus- 
banded, but gentle to ignorance and sickness and 
sorrow through the width and length of the land. 

And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a 
smile, those two women lived even unto extreme old 
age, unto the one's children's children's children, 
labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong 
hearts against the dread day of Hela, and the fate- 
locked gates of Valhalla. 

But at the end a wonder. 

As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the 
one in the ancestral homestead under the eyes of 
love, the other in a distant land among strange faces, 
behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of 
heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bear- 
ing Valkyrie, shining messengers of Valhalla. And 

i66 



A SAGA 

those two world-worn women, faithful in all their 
lives, were caught up in death in divine arms and 
borne far from the fogs of Hela to golden thrones 
among the battle heroes, upon which the Nornir, 
sitting at the loom of life, had from all eternity 
graven their names. 

And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla 
been thrown wide to all faithful endeavour whether 
of man or of woman. 

John Russell, 
Headmaster of the King Alfred School. 



THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans 
and he was of a right great stature, and had a ter- 
rible and fearful cheer and countenance. And he 
was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in 
some histories, when he served and dwelled with the 
king of Canaaneans, it came in his mind that he 
would seek the greatest prince that was in the world 
and him he would serve and obey. 

And so far he went that he came to a right great 
king, of whom the renown generally was that he was 
the greatest of the world. And when the king saw 
him he received him into his service and made him 
to dwell in his court. 

Upon a time a minstrel sung tof ore him a song in 
which he named oft the devil. And the king which 
was a Christian man, when he heard him name the 
devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. 
And when Christopher saw that, he had great mar- 
vel what sign it was and wherefore the king made 
it. And he demanded it of him. And because the 
king would not say, he said, "If thou tell me not, I 
shall no longer dwell with thee." And then the king 
told to him saying, "Alway when I hear the devil 

i68 



THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 

named, I fear that he should have power over me, 
and I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not 
nor annoy me." Then Christopher said to him, 
"Thou doubtest the devil that he hurt thee not? 
Then is the devil more mighty and greater than 
thou art. I am then deceived of my hope and pur- 
pose; for I supposed that I had found the most 
mighty and the most greatest lord of the world. 
But I commend thee to God, for I will go seek him 
to be my lord and I his servant." 

And then he departed from this king and hasted 
him to seek the devil. And as he went by a great 
desert he saw a great company of knights. Of which 
a knight cruel and horrible came to him and de- 
manded whither he went. And Christopher an- 
swered to him and said, "T go to seek the devil 
for to be my master." And he said, "I am he that 
thou seekest." And then Christopher was glad and 
bound himself to be his servant perpetual, and took 
him for his master and lord. 

And as they went together by a common way, they 
found there a cross erect and standing. And anon 
as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard and fled, 
and left the right way and brought Christopher 
about by a sharp desert, and after, when they were 
past the cross, he brought him to the highway that 
they had left. And when Christopher saw that, he 
marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that 
he had left high and fair way and had gone so far 

169 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

about by so hard desert. And the devil would not 
tell to him in no wise. Then Christopher said to 
him, "H thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart' 
from thee and shall serve thee no more." There- 
fore the devil was constrained to tell him, and said, 
"There was a man called Christ which was hanged 
on the cross, and when I see his sign, I am sore 
afeard and flee from it wheresomever I find it." 
To whom Christopher said, "Then he is greater 
and more mightier than thou, when thou art afraid 
of his sign. And I see well that I have laboured in 
vain since I have not founden the greatest lord of 
all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer. 
Go thy way then : for I will go seek Jesus Christ." 
And when he had long sought and demanded 
where he should find Christ, at the last he came into 
a great desert to an hermit that dwelled there. And 
this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and in- 
formed him in the faith diligently. And he said to 
him, "This king whom thou desirest to serve, requir- 
eth this service that thou must oft fast." And Chris- 
topher said to him, "Require of me some other thing 
and I shall do it. For that which thou requirest I 
may not do." And the hermit said, "Thou must 
then wake and make many prayers." And Chris- 
topher said to him, "I wot not what it is. I may do 
no such thing." And then the hermit said unto him, 
"Knowest thou such a river in which many be per- 
ished and lost?" To whom Christopher said, "I 

170 



THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 

know it well." Then said the hermit, "Because thou 
art noble and high of stature and strong in thy mem- 
bers, thou shalt be resident by that river and shalt 
bear over all them that shall pass there. Which 
shall be a thing right convenable to Our Lord Jesus 
Christ, whom thou desirest to serve, and I hope He 
shall shew Himself to thee." Then said Christo- 
pher, "Certes, this service may I well do, and I 
promise to Him for to do it." 

Then went Christopher to this river, and made 
there his habitation for him. And he bare a great 
pole in his hand instead of a staff, by which he sus- 
tained him in the water; and bare over all manner 
of people without ceasing. And there he abode, 
thus doing, many days. 

And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard 
the voice of a child which called him and said, 
"Christopher, come out and bear me over." Then 
he awoke and went out ; but he found no man. And 
when he was again in his house, he heard the same 
voice, and he ran out and found no body. The third 
time he was called, and came thither, and found a 
child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed 
him goodly to bear him over the water. And then 
Christopher lift up the child on his shoulders and 
took his staff and entered in to the river for to pass. 
And the water of the river arose and swelled more 
and more. And the child was heavy as lead. And 
always as he went further the water increased and 
, 171 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

grew more, and the child more and more waxed 
heavy: in so much that Christopher had great an- 
guish and feared to be drowned. And when he was 
escaped with great pain and passed the water, and 
set the child aground, he said to the child, "Child, 
thou hast put me in great peril. Thou weighest al- 
most as I had had all the world upon me. I might 
bear no greater burden." And the child answered, 
"Christopher, marvel thou no thing. For thou hast 
not only borne all the world upon thee ; but thou hast 
borne Him that created and made all the world upon 
thy shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the king to whom 
thou servest in this work. And that thou mayest 
know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff in the 
earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow 
that it shall bear flowers and fruit." And anon he 
vanished from his eyes. 

And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and 
when he arose on the morrow, he found his staff like 
a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves and dates. 

From The Legenda Aurea Temple Classics. 



ARTHUR IN THE CAVE 

Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on 
London Bridge, staring at the traffic and wondering 
why there were so many kites hovering about. He 
had come to London, after many adventures with 
thieves and highwaymen, which need not be related 
here, in charge of a herd of black Welsh cattle. He 
had sold them with much profit, and with jingling 
gold in his pocket he was going about to see the 
sights of the city. 

He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you 
must know that a good staff is as necessary to a 
drover as teeth are to his dogs. He stood still to 
gaze at some wares in a shop ( for at that time Lon- 
don Bridge was shops from beginning to end), 
when he noticed that a man was looking at his stick 
with a long fixed look. The man after a while came 
to him and asked him where he came from. 

"I come from my own country," said the Welsh- 
man, rather surlily, for he could not see what busi- 
ness the man had to ask such a question. 

"Do not take it amiss," said the stranger : "if you 
will only answer my questions, and take my advice, 
it will be of greater benefit to you than you imagine. 
Do you remember where you cut that stick?" 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: 
"What does it matter where I cut it ?" 

"It matters," said the questioner, "because there 
is a treasure hidden near the spot where you cut that 
stick. If you can remember the place and conduct 
me to it, I will put you in possession of great 
riches." 

The Welshman now understood he had to deal 
with a sorcerer, and he was greatly perplexed as to 
what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by 
the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew 
that the sorcerer must have derived his knowledge 
from devils, and he feared to have anything to do 
with the powers of darkness. The cunning man 
strove hard to persuade him, and at length made him 
promise to shew the place where he cut his hazel 
staff. 

The Welshman and the magician journeyed to- 
gether to Wales. They went to Craig y DInas, the 
Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath val- 
ley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, 
pointing to the stock or root of an old hazel, said : 
"This is where I cut my stick." 

"Let us dig," said the sorcerer. They digged until 
they came to a broad, flat stone. Prying this up, 
they found some steps leading downwards. They 
went down the steps and along a narrow passage 
until they came to a door. "Are you brave?" asked 
the sorcerer; "will you come in with me?" 

174 



ARTHUR IN THE CAVE 

*T will," said the Welshman, his curiosity getting 
the better of his fear. 

They opened the door, and a great cave opened out 
before them. There was a faint red light in the 
cave, and they could see everything. The first thing 
they came to was a bell. 

"Do not touch that bell," said the sorcerer, "or it 
will be all over with us both." 

As they went further in, the Welshman saw that 
the place was not empty. There were soldiers lying 
down asleep, thousands of them, as far as ever the 
eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour, 
the steel helmet of each was on his head, the shining 
shield of each was on his arm, the sword of each 
was near his hand, each had his spear stuck in the 
ground near him, and each and all were asleep. 

In the midst of the cave was a great round table at 
which sat warriors whose noble features and richly- 
dight armour proclaimed that they were not as the 
roll of common men. 

Each of these, too, had his head bent down ijti 
sleep. On a golden throne on the further side of the 
round table was a king of gigantic stature and au- 
gust presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was 
a mighty sword with scabbard and haft of gold 
studded with gleaming gems; on his head was a 
crown set with precious stones which flashed and 
glinted like so many-points of fire. Sleep had set its 
seal on his eyelids also. 

175 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"Are they asleep?" asked the Welshman, hardly 
believing his own eyes. "Yes, each and all of them," 
answered the sorcerer. "But, if you touch yonder 
bell, they will all awake." 

"How long have they been asleep ?" 

"For over a thousand years." 

"Who are they?" 

"Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come 
when they shall destroy all the enemy of the Cymry 
and re-possess the strand of Britain, establishing 
their own king once more at Caer Lleon." 

"Who are these sitting at the round table?" 

"These are Arthur's knights — Owain, the son of 
Urien; Cai, the son of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of 
Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe; Geraint, the 
son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, 
the son of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon; 
Edeyrn, the son of Nudd; Cymri, the son of 
Clydno." 

"And on the golden throne ?" broke in the Welsh- 
man. 

"Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in 
his hand," replied the sorcerer. 

Impatient by this time at the Welshman's ques- 
tions, the sorcerer hastened to a great heap of yellow 
gold on the floor of the cave. He took up as much 
as he could carry, and bade his companion do the 
same. "It is time for us to go," he then said, and 

176 



ARTHUR IN THE CAVE 

he led the way towards the door by which they had 
entered. 

But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of 
the countless soldiers in their glittering arms — all 
asleep. 

''How I should like to see them all awaking!" he 
said to himself. 'T will touch the bell — I must see 
them all arising from their sleep." 

When they came to the bell, he struck it until it 
rang through the whole place. As soon as it rang, 
lo! the thousands of warriors leapt to their feet and 
the ground beneath them shook with the sound of 
the steel arms. And a great voice came from their 
midst : "Who rang the bell ? Has the day come ?" 

The sorcerer was so much frightened that he 
shook like an aspen leaf. He shouted in answer: 
"No, the day has not come. Sleep on." 

The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welsh- 
man's eyes were dazzled as he looked at the bright 
steel arms which illumined the cave as with the light 
of myriad flames of fire. 

"Arthur," said the voice again, "awake; the bell 
has rung, the day is breaking. Awake, Arthur the 
Great." 

"No," shouted the sorcerer, "it is still night. 
Sleep on, Arthur the Great." 

A sound came from the throne. Arthur was 
standing, and the jewels in his crown shone like 

177 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

bright stars above the countless throng. His voice 
was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, 
and he said : 

"My warriors, the day has not come when the 
Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle shall go to war. 
It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the bell. 
Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not 
yet dawned." 

A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea 
came over the cave, and in a trice the soldiers were 
all asleep again. The sorcerer hurried the Welsh- 
man out of the cave, moved the stone back to its 
place and vanished. 

Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way 
into the cave again, but though he dug over every 
inch of the hill, he has never again found the en- 
trance to Arthur's Cave. 

From "The Welsh Fairy Book," by W. Jen- 
KYN Thomas. Fisher Unwin. 



HAFIZ, THE STONE-CUTTER 

There was once a stone-cutter whose name was 
Hafiz, and all day long he chipped, chipped, chipped 
at his block. And often he grew very weary of his 
task and he would say to himself impatiently, "Why 
should I go on chip-chip-chipping at my block? 
Why should I not have pleasure and amusement as 
other folk have ?" 

One day, when the sun was very hot and when he 
felt specially weary, he suddenly heard the sound of 
many feet, and, looking up from his work, he saw 
a great procession coming his way. It was the King, 
mounted on a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the 
right, in their shining armour, and the servants to 
the left, dressed in gorgeous clothing, ready to do 
his behests. 

And Hafiz said : "How splendid to be a King ! 
If only I could be a King, if only for ten minutes, so 
that I might know what it feels like !" And then, 
even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in 
his dream he sang this little song : 

"Ah me ! Ah me ! 
If Hafiz only the King could be !" ^ 

^ The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at 
each incident. 

179 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

And then a voice from the air around seemed to 

answer him and to say : 

"Be thou the King." 

And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that 
sat on the splendid charger, and they were his sol- 
diers to the right and his servants to the left. And 
Hafiz said : "1 am King, and there is no one stronger 
in the whole world than I." 

But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his 
head, Hafiz began to feel the terrible heat of the 
rays of the sun, and soon he noticed that the sol- 
diers and servants were weary, that his horse 
drooped, and that he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he 
said angrily : "What ! Is there something stronger 
in the world than a King?" And, almost without 
knowing it, he again sang his song — more boldly 
than the first time: 

"Ah me ! Ah me ! 
If Hafiz only the Sun could be !" 

And the Voice answered: 

"Be thou the Sun." 

And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon 
the Earth, but, because he did not know how to shine 
very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so that the crops 
dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And, then 
there arose from the East a little cloud which slipped 

i8o 



HAFIZ, THE STONE-CUTTER 

between Hafiz and the Earth, so that he could no 
longer shine down upon it, and he said : "Is there 
something stronger in the world than the Sun?" 

"Ah me ! Ah me ! 
If Hafiz only the Cloud could be !" 

And the Voice said : 

"Be thou the Cloud." 

And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down 
water upon the Earth, but, because he did not know 
how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain that all 
the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the 
great rivers overflowed their banks, and carried 
everything before them in swift torrent — all except 
one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz 
said: "Is there something stronger than the 
Cloud? 

"Ah me ! Ah me ! 
If Hafiz only the Rock could be!" 

And the Voice said : 

"Be thou the Rock." 

And Hafiz became the Rock, "and the Cloud disap- 
peared and the waters went down. 

And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a 
man — but he could not see his face. As the man ap- 
proached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck 

i8i 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. 
And Hafiz said : 'Ts there something stronger in 
the world than the Rock ? 

"Ah me ! Ah me ! 
If Hafiz only that Man might be !" 

And the Voice said : 

"Be thou— Thyself." 

And Hafiz seized the hammer and said : 

"The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was 
stronger than the Sun, the Rock was stronger than the 
Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger than all." 

Adapted and arranged by the Author. 



TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH 
(From the Russian) 

Long long ago there lived a King who was such a 
mighty monarch that whenever he sneezed everyone 
in the whole country had to say, "To your good 
health !" Everyone said it except the Shepherd with 
the bright blue eyes, and he would not say it. 

The King heard of this and was very angry, and 
sent for the Shepherd to appear before him. 

The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, 
where the King sat looking very grand and power- 
ful. But however grand or powerful he might be, 
the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him. 

"Say at once *To my good health!' cried the 
King. 

"To my good health," replied the Shepherd. 

"To mine — to mine, you rascal, you vagabond !" 
stormed the King. 

"To mine, to mine, Your Majesty," was the an- 
swer. 

"But to mine — to my own !" roared the King, and 
beat on his breast in a rage. 

"Well, yes ; to mine, of course, to my own," cried 
the Shepherd, and gently tapped his breast. 

183 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The King was beside himself with fury and did 
not know what to do, when the >Lord Chamber- 
lain interfered : 

"Say at once — say this very moment, 'To your 
health. Your Majesty,' for if you don't say it you 
will lose your life," he whispered. 

"No, I won't say it till I get the Princess for 
my wife," was the Shepherd's answer. 

Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne 
beside the King, her father, and she looked as sweet 
and lovely as a little golden dove. When she heard 
what the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing, 
for there is no denying the fact that this young 
shepherd with the blue eyes pleased her very much ; 
indeed, he pleased her better than any king's son 
she had yet seen. 

But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter, 
and he gave orders to throw the Shepherd into the 
white bear's pit. 

The guards led him away and thrust him into the 
pit with the white bear, who had had nothing to 
eat for two days and was very hungry. The door 
of the pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed 
at the Shepherd; but when it saw his eyes it was 
so frightened that it was ready to eat itself. It 
shrank away into a corner and gazed at him from 
there, and in spite of being so famished, did not , 
dare to touch him, but sucked its own paws from 
sheer hunger. The Shepherd felt that if he once 

184 



TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH 

removed his eyes off the beast he was a dead man, 
and in order to keep himself awake he made songs 
and sang them, and so the night went by. 

Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to 
see the Shepherd's bones, and was amazed to find 
him alive and well. He led him to the King, who 
fell into a furious passion, and said : 

"Well, you have learned what it is to be very near 
death, and now will you say, 'To my very good 
health'?" 

But the Shepherd answered : 

"I am not afraid of ten deaths ! I will only say it 
if I may have the Princess for my wife." 

"Then go to your death," cried the King, and 
ordered him to be thrown into the den with the wild 
boars. 

The wild boars had not been fed for a week, 
and when the Shepherd was thrust into their den 
they rushed at him to tear him to pieces. But the 
Shepherd took a little flute out of the sleeve of his 
jacket, and began to play a merry tune, on which 
the wild boars first of all shrank shyly away, and 
then got up on their hind legs and danced gaily. 
The Shepherd would have given anything to be 
able to laugh, they looked so funny; but he dared 
not stop playing, for he knew well enough that the 
moment he stopped they would fall upon him and 
tear him to pieces. His eyes were of no use to him 
here, for he could not have stared ten wild boars 

185 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

in the face at once; so he kept on playing, and the 
wild boars danced very slowly, as if in a minuet; 
then by degrees he played faster and faster, till 
they could hardly twist and turn quickly enough, 
and ended by all falling over each other in a heap, 
quite exhausted and out of breath. 

Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last ; and 
he laughed so long and so loud that when the Lord 
Chamberlain came early in the morning, expecting 
to find only his bones, the tears were still running 
down his cheeks from laughter. 

As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd 
was again brought before him; but he was more 
angry than ever to think the wild boars had not torn 
the man to bits, and he said : 

"Well, you have learned what it feels to be near 
ten deaths, now say 'To rny good health !' " 

But the Shepherd broke in with : 

"I do not fear a hundred deaths ; and I will only 
say it if I may have the Princess for my wife." 

"Then go to a hundred deaths !" roared the King, 
and ordered the Shepherd to be thrown down the 
deep vault of scythes. 

The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon, 
in the middle of which was a deep well with sharp 
scythes all round it. At the bottom of the well 
was a little light by which one could see, if any- 
one was thrown in, whether he had fallen to the 
bottom. 

i86 



TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH 

When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon 
he begged the guards to leave him alone a little 
while that he might look down into the pit of 
scythes; perhaps he might after all make up his 
mind to say, "To your good health" to the King. 

So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his 
long stick near the wall, hung his cloak round the 
stick and put his hat on the top. He also hung his 
knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem 
to have some body within it. When this was done, 
he called out to the guards and said that he had 
considered the matter, but after all he could not 
make up his mind to say what the King wished. 

The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak, 
knapsack and stick all down in the well together, 
watched to see how they put out the light at the 
bottom, and came away, thinking that now there 
was really an end of the Shepherd. But he had 
hidden in a dark corner, and was now laughing to 
himself all the time. 

Quite early next morning came the Lord Cham- 
berlain with a lamp, and he nearly fell backwards 
with surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and 
well. He brought him to the King, whose fury was 
greater than ever, but who cried : 

"Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths ; 
will you say, 'To your good health' ?" 

But the Shepherd only gave the same answer : 

"I won't say it till the Princess is my wife." 
187 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"Perhaps, after all, you may do it for less," said 
the King, who saw that there was no chance of 
making away with the Shepherd ; and he ordered the 
state coach to be got ready; then he made the 
Shepherd get in with him and sit beside him, and 
ordered the coachman to drive to the silver wood. 

When they reached it, he said : 

"Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will 
say 'To your good health,' I will give it to you." 

The Shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but 
he still persisted : 

*T will not say it till the Princess is my wife." 

The King was much vexed ; he drove further on 
till they came to a splendid castle, all of gold, and 
then he said : 

"Do you see this golden castle ? Well, I will give 
you that too, the silver wood and the golden castle, 
if only you will say that one thing to me : 'To your 
good health.' " 

The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was 
quite dazzled but he still said : 

"No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for 
my wife." 

This time the King was overwhelmed with grief, 
and gave orders to drive on to the diamond pond, 
and there he tried once more : 

"You shall have them all — all, if you will but 
say 'To your good health.' " 

The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight 



TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH 

not to be dazzled with the brilHant pond, but still 
he said : 

"No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess 
for my wife," 

Then the King saw that all his efforts were use- 
less, and that he might as well give in ; so he said : 

"Well, well, it is all the same to me — I will give 
you my daughter to wife; but then you really and 
truly must say to me, *To your good health.' " 

"Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it? 
It stands to reason that I shall say it then." 

At this the King was more delighted than anyone 
could have believed. He made it known all through 
the country that there were going to be great re- 
joicings, as the Princess was going to be married. 
And everyone rejoiced to think that the Princess, 
who had refused so many royal suitors, should have 
ended by falling in love with the staring-eyed Shep- 
herd. 

There was such a wedding as had never been seen. 
Everyone ate and drank and danced. Even the 
sick were feasted, and quite tiny new-born chil- 
dren had presents given them. But the greatest 
merrymaking was in the King's palace; there the 
best bands played and the best food was cooked. A 
crowd of people sat down to table, and all was fun 
and merrymaking. 

And when the groomsman, according to custom, 
brought in the great boar's head on a big dish and 

189 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

placed it before the King, so that he might carve 
it and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was 
so strong that the King began to sneeze with all 
his might. 

"To your very good health !" cried the Shepherd 
before anyone else, and the King was so delighted 
that he did not regret having given him his daugh- 
ter. 

In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd 
succeeded him. He made a very good king, and 
never expected his people to wish him well against 
their wills : but, all the same, everyone did wish him 
well, because they loved him. 



THE PROUD COCK 

There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully 
proud that he would have nothing to say to any- 
body. He left his house, it being far beneath his 
dignity to have any trammel of that sort in his life, 
and as for his former acquaintance, he cut them all. 

One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few 
little sparks of fire which were nearly dead. 

They cried out to him: "Please fan us with 
your wings, and we shall come to the full vigour 
of life again," 

But he did not deign to answer, and as he was 
going away one of the sparks said : "Ah well ! 
we shall die, but our big brother, the Fire, will pay 
you out for this one day." 

On another day he was airing himself in a 
meadow, showing himself off in a very superb set 
of clothes. A voice calling from somewhere said : 
"Please be so good as to drop us into the water 
again." 

He looked about and saw a few drops of water : 
they had got separated from their friends in the 
river, and were pining away with grief. "Oh ! 
please be so good as to drop us into the water 

191 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

again," they said; but, without any answer, he 
drank up the drops. He was too proud and a 
great deal too big to talk to a poor little puddle 
of water; but the drops said: ''Our big brother, 
the Water, will one day take you in hand, you proud 
and senseless creature." 

Some days afterwards, during a great storm of 
rain, thunder and lightning, the cock took shel- 
ter in a little empty cottage, and shut to the door; 
and he thought : 'T am clever ; I am in comfort. 
What fools people are to stop out in a storm 
like this! What's that?" thought he. "I never 
heard a sound like that before." 

In a little while it grew much louder, and when 
a few minutes had passed, it was a perfect howl. 
*'Oh !" thought he, "this well never do. I must 
stop it somehow. But what is it I have tO' stop?" 

He soon found it was the wind, shouting through 
the keyhole, so he plugged up the keyhole with 
a bit of clay, and then the wind was able to rest. 
He was very tired with whistling so long through 
the keyhole, and he said : "Now, if ever I have 
at any time a chance of doing a good turn to 
that princely domestic fowl, I will do it." 

Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a 
house door : he seldom went there, because the 
miser to whom the house belonged almost starved 
himself, and so, of course, there was nothing over- 
for anybody else. 

192 



THE PROUD COCK 

To his amazement the cock saw the miser bend- 
ing over a pot on the fire. At last the old fellow 
turned round to get a spoon with which to stir 
his pot, and then the cock, waking up, looked in 
and saw that the miser was making oyster-soup, 
for he had found some oyster-shells in an ash-pit, 
and to give the mixture a colour he had put in a 
few halfpence in the pot. 

The miser chanced to turn quickly round, while 
the cock was peering into the saucepan, and, chuck- 
ling to himself, he said : "I shall have some chicken 
broth after all." 

He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut 
the lid on. The bird, feeling warm, said : "Water, 
water, don't boil!" But the water only said: 
"You drank up my young brothers once : don't ask 
a favour of me/' 

Then he called out to the Fire : "Oh ! kind Fire, 
don't boil the water." But the Fire replied : "You 
once let my young sisters die : you cannot expect 
any mercy from me." So he flared up and boiled 
the water all the faster. 

At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, 
he thought of the wind, and called out : "Oh, Wind, 
come to my help!" and the Wind said: "Why, 
there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I 
will help him." So he came down the chimney, 
blew out the fire, blew the lid off the pot, and blew 
the cock far away into the air, and at last settled 

193 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

him on a steeple, where the cock has remained 
ever since. And people say that the halfpence 
which were in the pot when it was boiling have 
given him the queer brown colour he still wears. 

From the Spanish. 



SNEGOURKA 

There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his 
wife who would have been as happy as the day is 
long, if only God had given them a little child. 

One day, as they were watching the children 
playing in the snow, the man said to the woman : 

"Wife, shall we go out and help the children 
make a snowball?" 

But the wife answered, smiling: 

"Nay, husband, but since God has given us no 
little child, let us go and fashion one from the 
snow." 

And she put on her long blue cloak, and he 
put on his long brown coat, and they went out 
onto the crisp snow, and began to fashion the lit- 
tle child. 

First, they made the feet and the legs and the 
little body, and then they took a ball of snow for 
the head. And at that moment a stranger in a 
long cloak, with his hat well drawn over his face, 
passed that way, and said : "Heaven help your 
undertaking!" 

And the peasants crossed themselves and said : 
"It is well to ask help from Heaven in all we do." 

195 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Then they went on fashioning the httle child. 
And they made two holes for the eyes and formed 
the nose and the mouth. And then — wonder of 
wonders — the little child came alive, and breath 
came from its nostrils and parted lips. 

And the man was afeared, and said to his wife : 
"What have we done?" 

And the wife said : "This is the little girl child 
God has sent us." And she gathered it into her 
arms, and the loose snow fell away from the lit- 
tle creature. Her hair became golden and her 
eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots — ^but there 
was no colour in her cheeks, because there was 
no blood in her veins. 

In a few days she was like a child of three or 
four, and in a few weeks she seemed to be the 
age of nine or ten, and ran about gaily and prat- 
tled with the other children, who loved her so 
dearly, though she was so different from them. 

Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her par- 
ents loved her, there was one terror in her life, 
and that was the sun. And during the day she 
would run and hide herself in cool, damp places 
away from the sunshine, and this the other chil- 
dren could not understand. 

As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer 
and warmer, little Snegourka (for this was the 
name by which she was known) grew paler and 
thinner, and her mother would often ask her: 

196 



SNEGOURKA 

"What ails you, my darling?" and Snegourka would 
say: "Nothing, Mother, but I wish the sun were 
not so bright." 

One day, on St. John's Day, the children of 
the village came to fetch her for a day in the woods, 
and they gathered flowers for her and did all they 
could to make her happy, but it was only when 
the great red sun went down that Snegourka drew 
a deep breath of relief and spread her little hands 
out to the cool evening air. And the boys, glad at 
her gladness, said : "Let us do something for 
Snegourka. Let us light a bonfire." And Sne- 
gourka not knowing what a bonfire was, she clapped 
her hands and was as merry and eager as they. 
And she helped them gather the sticks, and then 
they all stood round the pile and the boys set fire 
to the wood. 

Snegourka stood watching the flames and lis- 
tening to the crackle of the wood; and then sud- 
denly they heard a tiny sound — ^and looking at 
the place where Snegourka had been standing, they 
saw nothing but a little snow-drift fast melting. 
And they called and called, "Snegourka ! Snegour- 
ka!" thinking she had run into the forest. But 
there was no answer. Snegourka had disappeared 
from this life as mysteriously as she had come 
into it. 

Adapted by the author ^ 



197 



THE WATER NIXIE 

The river was so clear because it was the home 
of a very beautiful Water Nixie who lived in it, 
and who sometimes could emerge from her home 
and sit in woman's form upon the bank. She had 
a dark green smock upon her, the colour of the 
water-weed that waves as the water wills it, deep, 
deep down. And in her long wet hair were the 
white flowers of the water-violet, and she held a 
reed mace in her hand. Her face was very sad, 
because she had lived a long life, and known so 
many adventures, ever since she was a baby, which 
was nearly a hundred years ago. For creatures 
of the streams and trees live a long, long time, 
and when they die they lose themselves in Nature. 
That means that they are forever clouds, or trees, 
or rivers, and never have the form of men and 
women again. . 

All water creatures would live, if they might 
choose it, in the sea, where they are born. It is in 
the sea they float hand-in-hand upon the crested 
billows, and sink deep in the great troughs of the 
strong waves, that are green as jade. They fol- 

198 



THE WATER NIXIE ' 

low the foam and lose themselves in the wide 
ocean, — • 

Where great whales come saiHng by. 
Sail and sail with unshut eye; 
And they store in the Sea King's palace 
The golden phosphor of the sea. 

But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness 
through not being good. She had forgotten many- 
things that had been told her, and she had done 
many things that grieved others. She had stolen 
somebody else's property — quite a large bundle of 
happiness — which belonged elsewhere and not to 
her. Happiness is generally made to fit the per- 
son who owns it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; 
so that when you take someone else's it's very little 
good to you, for it fits badly, and you can never 
forget it isn't yours. 

So what with one thing and another, this Water 
Nixie had to be punished, and the Queen of the 
Sea had banished her from the waves.^ 

"You shall live for a long time in little places, 
where you will weary of yourself. You will learn 
to know yourself so well that everything you want 
will seem too good for you, and you will cease 
to claim it. And so, in time, you shall get free." 

Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, 

^ "The punishment that can most affect Merfolk is to re- 
strict their freedom. And this is how the Queen of the Sea 
punished the Nixie of our tale." 

199 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

and be shut into the fastness of a very small space, 
according to the words of the Queen. And this 
small space was — a tear. 

At first she could hardly express her misery, and 
by thinking so continuously of the wideness and 
savour of the sea, she brought a dash of the brine 
with her, that makes the saltness of our tears. She 
became many times smaller than her own stature; 
even then, by standing upright and spreading wide 
her arms, she touched with her finger-tips the walls 
of her tiny crystal home. How she longed that 
this tear might be wept, and the walls of her prison 
shattered! But the owner of this tear was of a 
very proud nature, and she was so sad that tears 
seemed to her in no wise to express her grief. 

She was a Princess who lived in a country that 
was not her home. What were tears to her? H 
she could have stood on the top of the very highest 
hill and with both hands caught the great winds of 
heaven, strong as they, and striven with them, per- 
haps she might have felt as if she expressed all 
she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the 
stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over 
the sun. But tears! Would they have helped to 
tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your copy- 
book, don't you ? or pinch your hand ? So you may 
imagine the Nixie's home was a safe one, and she 
turned round and round in the captivity of that 
tear. 

200 



THE WATER NIXIE 

For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, 
till she grew to be accustomed to her cell. At last, 
in this wise came her release. 

An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle 
and begged to see the Princess. She must see her, 
she cried. And the Princess came down the steps 
to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll 
of paper in her hand. And the roll of paper smelt 
like honey as she took it, and it adhered to her 
palm as she opened it. There was little sign of 
writing on the paper, but in the midst of the page 
was a picture, small as the picture reflected in the 
iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill, with 
one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound 
round the hill. 

And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice 
spoke to her. Many sounds she heard, gathered up 
into one great silence, like the quiet there is in 
forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green 
is deep : — 

"Blessed are they that have the home longing, 
For they shall go home." 

Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden 
pieces, and went up to her chamber, and long that 
night she sat, looking out upon the sky. 

She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, 
though she held it closely. Clearly before her did 
she see that small picture : the hill, and the tree, 

20I 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in 
the iris of an eye. And in her memory she was 
upon that road, and the hill rose beside her, and 
the little tree was outlined, every twig of it, 
against the sky. 

And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love 
of the place arose in her, a love of that certain 
bit of country that was so sharp and strong, that 
it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the 
window-sill. 

And because the love of a country is one of the 
deepest loves you may feel, the band of her con- 
trol was loosened, and the tears came welling to her 
eyes. Up they brimmed and over in salty rush and 
follow, dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, 
speared for a moment on her eyelashes, then shim- 
mering to their fall. And at last came the tear that 
held the disobedient Nixie. 

Splish! it fell. And she was free. 

If you could have seen how pretty she looked 
standing there, about the height of a grass-blade, 
wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of 
moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to 
be quit of that tear. Then she raised her two arms 
above her in one delicious stretch, and if you had 
been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you might 
have heard her laughing. Then she grew a little, 
and grew and grew, till she was about the height 
of a bluebell, and as slender to see. 

202 



THE WATER NIXIE 

She stood looking at the splash on the window- 
sill that had been her prison so long, and then, 
with three steps of her bare feet, she reached the 
jessamine that was growing by the window, and 
by this she swung herself to the ground. 

Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows 
till she came to the running brook, and with all 
her longing in her outstretched hands, she kneeled 
down by the crooked willows among all the com fry 
and the loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the 
reeds. 

Then she slid into the wide, cool stream. 
From "The Children and the Pictures." 
Pamela Tennant (Lady Glenconner). 



THE BLUE ROSE 

There lived once upon a time in China a wise 
Emperor who had one daughter. His daughter 
was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her feet 
were the smallest in the world; her eyes were 
long and slanting and bright as brown onyxes, and 
when you heard her laugh it was like listening to 
a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell. 
Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise 
as she was beautiful, and she chanted the verse 
of the great poets better than anyone in the land. 
The Emperor was old in years; his son was mar- 
ried and had begotten a son; he was, therefore, 
quite happy with regard to the succession to the 
throne, but he wished before he died to see his 
daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy 
of her. 

Many suitors presented themselves to the palace 
as soon as it became known that the Emperor 
desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the 
palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, 
who told them that the Emperor had decided that 
only the man who found and brought back the blue 
rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were 

204 



THE BLUE ROSE 

much puzzled by this order. What was the blue 
rose and where was it to be found ? In all, a hun- 
dred and fifty suitors had presented themselves, and 
out of these fifty at once put away from them 
all thought of winning the hand of the Emperor's 
daughter, since they considered the condition im- 
posed to be absurd. 

The other hundred set about trying to find the 
blue rose. One of them — his name was Ti-Fun- 
Ti — he was a merchant and was immensely rich, 
at once went to the largest shop in the town and 
said to the shopkeeper, 'T want a blue rose, the 
best you have." 

The shopkeeper, with many apologies, explained 
that he did not stock blue roses. He had red roses 
in profusion, white, pink, and yellow roses, but no 
blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand 
for the article. 

"Well," said Ti-Fun-Ti, "you must get one for 
me. I do not mind how much money it costs, 
but I must have a blue rose." 

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but 
he feared it would be an expensive article and 
difficult to procure. Another of the suitors, whose 
name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and ex- 
tremely brave; he mounted his horse, and taking 
with him a hundred archers and a thousand horse- 
men, he marched into the territory of the King of 
the Five Rivers, whom he knew to be the richest 

20; 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

king in the world and the possessor of the rarest 
treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose, 
threatening him with a terrible doom should he 
be reluctant to give it up. 

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked sol- 
diers, and had a horror of noise, physical violence, 
and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was armed 
solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the 
cushions on which he was lying when the demand 
was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said to the 
servant who straightway appeared, "Fetch me the 
blue rose." 

The servant retired and returned presently bear- 
ing on a silken cushion a large sapphire which 
was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose with 
all its petals. 

"This," said the King of the Five Rivers, "is 
the blue rose. You are welcome to it." 

The warrior took it, and after making brief, sol- 
dier-like thanks, he went straight back to the Em- 
peror's palace, saying that he had lost no time in 
finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the 
presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he heard 
the warrior's story and saw the blue rose which 
had been brought sent for his daughter and said 
to her: "This intrepid warrior has brought you 
what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he ac- 
complished the quest?" 

The Princess took the precious object in her 
206 



THE BLUE ROSE 

hands, and after examining it for a moment, said : 
"This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire ; I have 
no need of precious stones." And she returned 
the stone to the warrior with many elegantly ex- 
pressed thanks. And the warrior went away in 
discomfiture. 

The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, 
was all the more anxious to win the prize. He 
sought the shopkeeper and said to him: "Have 
you got me the blue rose? I trust you have; be- 
cause, if not, I shall most assuredly be the means 
of your death. My brother-in-law is chief magis- 
trate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief 
officials in the kingdom." 

The shopkeeper turned pale and said : "Sir, give 
me three days and I will procure you the rose 
without fail." The merchant granted him the three 
days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at 
his wit's end as to what to do, for he knew well 
there was no such thing as a blue rose. For two 
days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, 
and on the third day he went to his wife and said, 
"Wife, we are ruined." 

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said : 
"Nonsense. If there is no such thing as a blue 
rose we must make one. Go to the chemist and 
ask him for a strong dye which will change a white 
rose into a blue one." 

So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked 
207 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle 
of red Hquid, telhng him to pick a white rose and 
to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would 
turn blue. The shopkeeper did as he was told; 
the rose turned into a beautiful blue and the shop- 
keeper took it to the merchant, who at once went 
with it to the palace saying that he had found 
the blue rose. 

He was ushered into the presence of the Em- 
peror, who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent 
for his daughter and said to her: "This wealthy 
merchant has brought you what he claims to be 
the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest ?" 

The Princess took the flower in her hands and 
after examining it for a moment said : "This is 
a white rose, its stalk has been dipped In a poison- 
ous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly 
to settle upon it it would die of the potent fume. 
Take it back. I have no need of a dyed rose." 
And she returned it to the merchant with many 
elegantly expressed thanks. 

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in va- 
rious ways for the blue rose. Some of them trav- 
eled all over the world seeking it; some of them 
sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and 
one did not hesitate to invoke the help of the 
dwarfs that live underground; but all of them, 
whether they traveled in far countries or took 
counsel with wizards and demons or sat ponder- 

208 



THE BLUE ROSE 

ing in lonely places, failed to find the blue rose. 

At last they all abandoned the quest except the 
Lord Chief Justice, who was the most skillful law- 
yer and statesman in the country. After thinking 
over the matter for several months he sent for the 
most famous artist in the country and said to him : 
"Make me a china cup. Let it be milk-white in 
colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, 
a blue rose." 

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and 
worked for two months at the Lord Chief Justice's 
cup. In two months' time it was finished, and the 
world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so per- 
fect in symmetry, so delicate in texture, and the 
rose on it, the blue rose, was a living flower, picked 
in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface 
of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice 
saw it he gasped with surprise and pleasure, for he 
was a great lover of porcelain, and never in his 
life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, 
"Without doubt the blue rose is here on this cup 
and nowhere else." 

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he 
went to the Emperor's palace and said that he had 
brought the blue rose. He was ushered into the 
Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for 
his daughter and said to her: "This eminent law- 
yer has brought you what he claims to be the blue 
rose. Has he accomplished the quest ?" 

209 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and 
after examining it for a moment said : "This bowl 
is the most beautiful piece of china I have ever 
seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I 
will put it aside until I receive the blue rose. For 
so beautiful is it that no other flower is worthy 
to be put in it except the blue rose." 

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for 
accepting the bowl with many elegantly turned 
phrases, and he went away in discomfiture. 

After this there was no one in the whole coun- 
try who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. 
It happened that not long after the Lord Chief 
Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the 
kingdom of the Emperor. One evening he was 
playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark 
wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had 
sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet 
twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spear- 
heads. There was an incessant noise made by the 
croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. 
The minstrel was singing a short song over and over 
again to a monotonous tune. The sense of it was 
something like this : 

I watched beside the willow trees 
The river, as the evening fell, 

The twilight came and brought no breeze, 
Nor dew, nor water for the well. 



210 



THE BLUE ROSE 

When from the tangled banks of grass 

A bird across the water flew, 
And in the river's hard grey glass 

I saw a flash of azure blue. 

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and 
looking up he saw a slight figure white against 
the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked along 
under the wall until he came to a gate, and there 
someone was waiting for him, and he was gently 
led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the 
dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, 
and he understood their message. In the twilight 
a thousand meaningless nothings were whispered 
in the Hght of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. 
When the East began to grow Hght, the Princess 
(for it was she) said it was time to go. 

"But," said the minstrel, "to-morrow I shall come 
to the palace and ask for your hand." 

"Alas!" said the Princess, "I would that were 
possible, but my father has made a foolish con- 
dition that only he may wed me who finds the blue 
rose." 

"That is simple," said the minstrel. "I will find 
it." And they said good night to each other. 

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, 
and on his way he picked a common white rose 
from a wayside garden. He was ushered into the 
Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and 
said to her: "This penniless minstrel has brought 

211 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he 
accomplished the quest?" 

The Princess took the rose in her hands and 
said: "Yes, this is without doubt the blue rose." 

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were 
present respectfully pointed out that the rose was 
a common white rose and not a blue one, and the 
objection was with many forms and phrases con- 
veyed to the Princess. 

"I think the rose is blue," said the Princess. 
"Perhaps you are all colour bhnd." 

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, 
decided that if the Princess thought the rose was 
blue it was blue, for it was well known that her 
perception was more acute than that of any one 
else in the kingdom. 

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they 
settled on the sea coast in a little seen house with 
a garden full of white roses, and they lived hap- 
pily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, know- 
ing that his daughter had made a good match, died 
in peace. 

Maurice Baring. 



THE TWO FROGS 

Once upon a time in the country of Japan there 
lived two frogs, one of whom made his home in a 
ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast, 
while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which 
ran through the city of Kioto. At such a great dis- 
tance apart, they had never even heard of each 
other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into 
both their heads at once that the}'' should like to 
see a little of the world, and the frog who lived 
at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who 
lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the 
great Mikado had his palace. 

So one fine morning in the spring, they both set 
out along the road that led from Kioto to Osaka, 
one from one end and the other from the other. 

The journey was more tiring than they expected, 
for they did not know much about travelling, and 
half-way between the two towns there rose a moun- 
tain which had to be climbed. It took them a long 
time and a great many hops to reach the top, but 
there they were at last, and what was the surprise 
of each to see another frog before him! They 
looked at each other for a moment without speak- 

213 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

ing, and then fell into conversation, and explained 
the cause of their meeting so far from their homes. 
It was delightful to find that they both felt the same 
wish — to learn a little more of their native country 
— and as there was no sort of hurry they stretched 
themselves out in a cool, damp place, and agreed 
that they would have a good rest before they parted 
to go their ways. 

"What a pity we are not bigger," said the Osaka 
frog, "and then we could see both towns from here 
and tell if it is worth our while going on." 

"Oh, that is easily managed," returned the Kioto 
frog. "We have only got to stand up on our hind 
legs, and hold on to each other, and then we can 
each look at the town he is travelling to." 

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he 
at once jumped up and put his front paws on the 
shoulder of his friend, who had risen also. There 
they both stood, stretching themselves as high as 
they could, and holding each other tightly, so that 
they might not fall down. The Kioto frog turned 
his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned 
his nose towards Kioto; but the foolish things for- 
got that when they stood up their great eyes lay 
in the backs of their heads, and that though their 
noses might point to the places to which they wanted 
to go, their eyes beheld the places from which they 
had come. 

"Dear me!" cried the Osaka frog; "Kioto is ex- 
214 



THE TWO FROGS 

actly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a 
long journey. I shall go home." 

*'If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a 
copy of Kioto I should never have travelled all this 
way," exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and as he 
spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders 
and they both fell down on the grass. 

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, 
and set off for home again, and to the end of their 
lives they believed that Osaka and Kioto, which are 
as different to look at as two towns can be, were as 
like as two peas. 

The Violet Loving Book. 



THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD 

Once upon a time a Snake went out of his hole 
to take an airing. He crawled about, greatly en- 
joying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the breeze, 
until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this 
door was the door of the palace of the King, and in- 
side was the King himself, with all his courtiers. 

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake 
crawling in at the door. They all ran away except 
the King, who felt that his rank forbade him to 
be a coward, and the King's son. The King called 
out for somebody to come and kill the Snake; 
but this horrified them still more, because in that 
country the people believed it to be wicked to kill 
any living thing, even snakes and scorpions and 
wasps. So the courtiers did nothing, but the young 
Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake with 
his stick. 

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious 
and set out in search of her husband. She too saw 
the open door of the palace, and in she went. O 
horror! there on the floor lay the body of her hus- 
band, all covered with blood and quite dead. No 
one saw the Snake's wife crawl in; she inquired 

216 



THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD 

of a white ant what had happened, and when she 
found that the young Prince had killed her hus- 
band, she made a vow that, as he had made her a 
widow, so she would make his wife a widow. 

That night, when all the world was asleep, the 
Snake crept into the Prince's bedroom, and coiled 
round his neck. The Prince slept on, and when he 
awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his 
neck encircled with the coils of a snake. He was 
afraid to stir, so there he remained, until the 
Prince's mother became anxious and went to see 
what was the matter. When she entered his room, 
and saw him in this plight, she gave a loud shriek, 
and ran off to tell the King. 

"Call the archers," said the King. 

The archers came, and the King told them to go 
to the Prince's room, and shoot the Snake that was 
coiled about his neck. They were so clever, that 
they could easily do this without hurting the Prince 
at all. 

In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows 
to the bows, the bows were raised and ready to 
shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there 
issued a voice which spoke as follows : 

"O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you 
shoot. It is not fair to carry out the sentence be- 
fore you have heard the case. Is not this a good 
law : an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth ? Is 
it not so, O King?" 

217 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"Yes," replied the King, "that is our law." 

"Then," said the Snake, "I plead the law. Your 
son has made me a widow, so it is fair and right 
that I should make his wife a widow." 

"That sounds right enough," said the King, "but 
right and law are not always the same thing. We 
had better ask somebody who knows." 

They asked all the judges, but none of them could 
tell the law of the matter. They shook their heads, 
and said they would look up all their law-books, and 
see whether anything of the sort had ever happened 
before, and if so, how it had been decided. That 
is the way judges used to decide cases in that 
country, though I dare say it sounds to you a very 
funny way. It looked as if they had not much 
sense in their own heads, and perhaps that was 
true. The upshot of it all was that not a judge 
would give an opinion; so the King sent mes- 
sengers all over the countryside, to see if they 
could find somebody somewhere who knew some- 
thing. 

One of these messengers found a party of five 
shepherds, who were sitting upon a hill and trying 
to decide a quarrel of their own. They gave their 
opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, 
that the King's messenger said to himself, "Here 
are the men for us. Here are five men, each with 
an opinion of his own, and all different." Post- 
haste he scurried back to the King, and told him 

218 



THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD 

that he had found at last some one ready to judge 
the knotty point. 

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and 
Princess, and all the courtiers, got on horseback, 
and away they galloped to the hill whereupon the 
five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went 
with them, coiled round the neck of the Prince. 

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shep- 
herds were dreadfully frightened. At first they 
thought that the strangers were a gang of robbers, 
and when they saw it was the King their next 
thought was that one of their misdeeds had been 
found out; and each of them began thinking what 
was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was 
it that? 

But the King and the courtiers got off their 
horses, and said good day, in the most civil way. 
So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease again. 
Then the King said : 

"Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to 
you, which not all the judges in all the courts of 
my city have been able to solve. Here is my son, 
and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his 
neck. Now, the husband of this Snake came creep- 
ing into my palace hall, and my son the Prince 
killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the 
other, says that, as my son has made her a widow, 
so she has a right to widow my son's wife. What 
do you think about it?" 

219 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The first shepherd said : "I think she is quite 
right, my Lord the King. H anyone made my wife 
a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to 
him." 

This was brave language, and the other shep- 
herds shook their heads and looked fierce. But the 
King was puzzled, and could not quite understand 
it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife 
were a widow, the man would be dead ; and then it 
is hard to see that he could do anything. So, to 
make sure, the King asked the second shepherd 
whether that was his opinion too. 

"Yes," said the second shepherd ; "now the Prince 
has killed the Snake, the Snake has a right to kill 
the Prince if he can." But that was not of much 
use either, as the Snake was as dead as a door- 
nail. So the King passed on to the third. 

"I agree with my mates," said the third shepherd. 
"Because, you see, a Prince is a Prince, but then 
a Snake is a Snake." That was quite true, they 
all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter 
much. Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to 
say what he thought. 

The fourth shepherd said : "An eye for an eye, 
and a tooth for a tooth ; so I think a widow should 
be a widow, if so be she don't marry again." 

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that 
he hardly knew whether he stood on his head or 
his heels. But there was still the fifth shepherd 

220 



THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD 

left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth 
shepherd said : 

"King, I should like to ask two questions." 

"Ask twenty, if you like," said the King. He 
did not promise to answer them, so he could afford 
to be generous. 

"First. I ask the Princess how many sons she 
has." 

"Four," said the Princess. 

"And how many sons has Mistress Snake here ?" 

"Seven," said the Snake. 

"Then," said the old shepherd, "it will be quite 
fair for Mistress Snake to kill his Highness the 
Prince when her Highness the Princess has had 
three sons more." 

"I never thought of that," said the Snake. 
"Good-bye, King, and all you good people. Send a 
message when the Princess has had three more sons, 
and you may count upon me — I will not fail you." 

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck 
and slid away among the grass. 

The King and the Prince and everybody shook 
hands with the wise old shepherd, and went home 
again. And the Princess never had any more sons 
at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many 
years; and if they are not dead they are living still. 
From "The Talking Thrush." 



THE FOLLY OF PANIC 

And It came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was 
born again as a Lion. Just as he had helped^|his 
fellow-men, he now began to help his fellow-ani- 
mals, and there was a great deal to be done. For 
instance, there was a little nervous Hare who was 
always afraid that something dreadful was going 
to happen to her. She was always saying: "Sup- 
pose the Earth were to fall in, what would happen 
to me?" And she said this so often that at last 
she thought It really was about to happen. One 
day, when she had been saying over and over again, 
"Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would 
happen to me?" she heard a slight noise: it really 
was only a heavy fruit which had fallen upon a 
rustling leaf, but the little Hare was so nervous she 
was ready to believe anything, and she said in a 
frightened tone: "The Earth is falling in." She 
ran away as fast as she could go, and presently she 
met an old brother Hare, who said: "Where are 
you running to. Mistress Hare ?" 

And the little Hare said : "I have no time to stop 
and tell you anything. The Earth is falling In, and 
I am running away." 

222 



THE FOLLY OF PANIC 

"The Earth is falling in, is it?" said the old 
brother Hare, in a tone of much astonishment ; and 
he repeated this to his brother hare, and he to his 
brother hare, and he to his brother hare, until at last 
there were a hundred thousand brother hares, all 
shouting: "The Earth is falling in." Now pres- 
ently the bigger animals began to take the cry up. 
First the deer, and then the sheep, and then the 
wild boar, and then the buffalo, and then the camel, 
and then the tiger, and then the elephant. 

Now the wise Lion heard all this noise and won- 
dered at it. "There are no signs," he said, "of the 
Earth falling in. They must have heard some- 
thing." And then he stopped them all short and 
said: "What is this you are saying?" 

And the Elephant said : "I remarked that the 
Earth was falling in." 

"How do you know this?" asked the Lion. 

"Why, now I come to think of it, it was the 
Tiger that remarked it to me." 

And the Tiger said: "I had it from the Camel," 
and the Camel said : "I had it from the Buffalo." 
And the buffalo from the wild boar, and the wild 
boar from the sheep, and the sheep from the deer, 
and the deer from the hares, and the Hares said : 
"Oh ! we heard it from that little Hare." 

And the Lion said : "Little Hare, what made you 
say that the Earth was falling in?" 

And the little Hare said : "I saw it." 
223 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"You saw it?" said the Lion. "Where?" 

"Yonder, by that tree." 

"Well," said the Lion, "come with me and I will 
show you how " 

"No, no," said the Hare, "I would not go near 
that tree for anything, I'm so nervous." 

"But," said the Lion, "I am going to take you on 
my back," And he took her on his back, and begged 
the animals to stay where they were until they re- 
turned. Then he showed the little Hare how the 
fruit had fallen upon the leaf, making the noise 
that had frightened her, and she said : "Yes, I see 
— the Earth is not falling in." And the Lion said : 
"Shall we go back and tell the other animals?" 
And they went back. The little Hare stood before 
the animals and said: "The Earth is not falling 
in." And all the animals began to repeat this to 
one another, and they dispersed gradually, and you 
heard the words more and more softly: 

"The Earth is not falling in," etc., etc., etc., un- 
til the sound died away altogether. 

From "Eastern Stories and Legends." 

Note. — This story I have told in my own words, using the 
language I have found most effective for very young children. 



THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY 

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a 
Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the 
foot of a mountain, on another a river, on the third 
side a border village. 

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a 
Jackal and an Otter; each of these creatures got 
food on his own hunting ground. In the evening 
they met together, and the Hare taught his com- 
panions many wise things : that the moral law should 
be observed, that alms should be given to the poor, 
and that holy days should be kept. 

One day the Buddha said: "To-morrow is a 
fast day. Feed any beggars that come to you by 
giving food from your own table." They all con- 
sented. 

The next day the Otter went down to the bank 
of the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman 
had landed seven red fish and had buried them in 
the sand on the river's bank while he went down 
the stream catching more fish. The Otter scented 
the buried fish, dug up the sand till he came upon 
them, and he called aloud : "Does any one own 
these fish?" And, ^not seeing the owner, he laid 

225 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

the fish in the jungle where he dwelt, intending 
to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down, 
thinking how virtuous he was. 

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and 
found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, two 
spits, and a pot of milk-curd. 

And, after thrice crying aloud, "To whom do 
these belong?" and not finding an owner, he put on 
his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping 
the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in 
his own lair, thinking, "In due season I will de- 
vour them," and then he lay down, thinking how 
virtuous he had been. 

The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and 
gathering a bunch of mangoes, laid them up in his 
part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in due sea- 
son. He then lay down and thought how virtu- 
ous he had been. 

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due 
time came out, thinking to lie (in contemplation) on 
the Kuca grass. "It is impossible for me to offer 
grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, 
and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar 
come to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to 
eat." 

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard 
this thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to 
the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to 
the Otter and said : "Wise Sir, if I could get some- 

226 



THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY 

thing to eat, I would perform all my priestly- 
duties." 

The Otter said : "I will give you food. Seven 
red fish have I safely brought to land from the 
sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, 
and stay in this wood." 

And the Brahmin said : "Let it be until to-mor- 
row, and I will see to it then." 

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that 
he had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin 
to accept it and remain in the wood; but the Brah- 
min said: "Let it be until the morrow, and then 
I will see to it." 

And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the 
mangoes, and the Brahmin answered in the same 
way. 

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and 
the Hare said : "Behold, I will give you of my flesh 
to eat. But you must not take life on this holy 
day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacri- 
fice myself by falling into the midst of the flames, 
and when my body is roasted you shall eat my flesh 
and perform all your priestly duties." 

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a 
heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom 
Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but 
before casting himself into the flames he shook him- 
self, lest perchance there should be any insects in 
his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering 

227 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a 
royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy 
of joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the 
flame failed even to heat the pores or the hair on 
the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he 
had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed 
the Brahmin in these words : "Brahmin, the fire 
that you have kindled is icy cold ; it fails to heat the 
pores of the hair on my body. What is the mean- 
ing of this?" 

"O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come 
to put your virtue to the test." 

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said : "No god 
or man could find in me an unwillingness to die." 

Then Sakka said : "O wise Hare, be thy virtue 
known to all the ages to come." 

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the 
juice and daubed on the moon the signs of the 
young hare. 

Then he placed him back on the grass that he 
might continue his Sabbath meditation, and returned 
to Heaven. 

And the four creatures lived together and kept 
the moral law. 

From "Eastern Stories and Legends." 



FILIAL PIETY 

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re- 
born in the shape of a parrot, and he greatly ex- 
celled all other parrots in his strength and beauty. 
And when he was full grown his father, who had 
long been the leader of the flock in their flights 
to other climes, said to him : "My son, behold my 
strength is spent ! Do thou lead the flock, for I am 
no longer able." And the Buddha said : "Behold, 
thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds." And the 
parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, 
and willingly did they follow him. Now from that 
day on, the Buddha undertook to feed his parents, 
and would not consent that they should do any more 
work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya 
Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps 
of rice that grew there, he filled his beak with food 
for the dear parents who were waiting his return. 

Now there was a man appointed to watch the 
rice-fields, and he did his best to drive the parrots 
away, but there seemed to be some secret power in 
the leader of this flock which the keeper could not 
overcome. 

229 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

He noticed that the parrots ate their fill and then 
flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only sat- 
isfied his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak. 

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and 
he went to his master, the Brahmin, to tell him 
what had happened ; and even as the master listened 
there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King 
was something higher than he seemed, and he loved 
him even before he saw him. But he said nothing 
of this, and only warned the Keeper that he should 
set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the 
man did as he was bidden : he made a small cage and 
set the snare, and sat down in his hut waiting for 
the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot- 
King amidst his flock, who, because he had no 
greed, sought no richer spot, but flew down to the 
same place in which he had fed the day before. 

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground than 
he felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear 
crept into his bird heart, but a stronger feeling was 
there to crush it down, for he thought: "H I cry 
out the Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be 
terrified, and they will fly away foodless. But if I 
lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied, and may 
they safely come to my aid." Thus, was the par- 
rot both brave and prudent. 

But alas ! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had 
nought of his brave spirit. When they had eaten 
their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry 

230 



FILIAL PIETY 

of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad 
plight of their leader. 

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore 
within him, and he said : "All these my kith and 
kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what 
sin have I done?" 

The watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot- 
King, and the sound of the other parrots flying 
through the air. "What is that?" he cried, and 
leaving his hut he came to the place where he had 
laid the snare. There he found the captive parrot; 
he tied his feet together and brought him to the 
Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw 
the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his 
heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feel- 
ings, and said in a voice of anger : "Is thy greed 
greater than that of all other birds? They eat their 
fill, but thou takest away each day more food than 
thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for 
me, or dost thou store up the food in some gran- 
ary for selfish greed?" 

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet hu- 
man voice : "I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor do 
I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But 
this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is 
due — each day I grant a loan, and each day I store 
up a treasure." 

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words 
of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not en- 

231 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

tered his heart) and he said : "I pray thee, O Won- 
drous Bird, to make these words clear unto me." 

And then the Parrot-King made answer: "I 
carry food to my ancient parents who can no longer 
seek that food for themselves : thus I pay my daily 
debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose 
wings are yet ungrown. When I am old they will 
care for me — this my loan to them. And for other 
birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid 
of the strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I 
give in charity." 

Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed 
the love that was in his heart. "Eat thy fill, O 
Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat, too, for 
thy sake." And he wished to bestow a thousand 
acres of land upon him, but the Great Being would 
only take a tiny portion round which were set 
boundary stores. 

And the parrot returned with a head of rice, and 
said: "Arise, dear parents, that I may take you 
to a place of plenty." And he told them the story 
of his deliverance. 

From "Eastern Stories and Legends." 



THREE STORIES 

FROM THE DANISH OF 

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 



THREE STORIES FROM HANS CHRISTIAN 
ANDERSEN ' 

THE SWINEHERD 

There was once a poor Prince. He owned a 
Kingdom — a very small one, but it was big enough 
to allow him to marry, and he was determined to 
marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part 
to say to a King's daughter: "Will you marry 
me?" But he dared to do so, for his name was 
known far and wide, and there were hundreds of 
princesses who would willingly have said : "Yes, 
thank you." But, would shef We shall hear what 
happened. 

On the grave of the Prince's father, there grew 
a rose-tree — such a wonderful rose-tree! It 
bloomed only once in five years, and then it bore 
only one rose — but what a rose! Its perfume was 
so sweet that whoever smelt it forgot all his cares 
and sorrows. The Prince had also a nightingale 

* The three stories from Hans Christian Andersen have for 
so long formed part of my repertoire that I have been re- 
quested to include them. I am offering a free translation of 
my own from the Danish version. 

235 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in 
the world were contained in its little throat. The 
rose and the nightingale were both to be given to 
the Princess, and were therefore placed in two great 
silver caskets and sent to her. The Emperor had 
them carried before him into the great hall where 
the Princess was playing at "visiting" with her 
ladies-in-waiting — they had nothing else to do. 
When she saw the caskets with the presents in them, 
she clapped her hands with joy. 

"If it were only a little pussy-cat," she cried. 
But out came a beautiful rose. 

"How elegantly it is made," said all the ladies of 
the court. 

"It is more than elegant," said the Emperor. "It 
is neat." 

"Fie, papa," she said, "it is not made at all ; it is 
a natural rose." 

"Let us see what the other casket contains before 
we lose our temper," said the Emperor, and then 
out came the little nightingale and sang so sweetly 
that at first nobody could think of anything to say 
against it. 

"Superhe, superbe/' cried the ladies of the court, 
for they all chattered French, one worse than the 
other. 

"How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' 
musical-box!" said an old Lord-in-Waiting. "Ah, 
me! the same tone, the same execution." 

2^6 



THE SWINEHERD 

"The very same," said the Emperor, and he 
cried like a little child. 

*T hope it is not a real bird," said the Princess. 

"Oh, yes! it is a real bird," said those who had 
brought it. 

"Then let the bird fly away," she said, and she 
would on no account allow the Prince to come in. 

But he was not to be disheartened ; he smeared his 
face with black and brown, drew his cap over his 
forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The 
Emperor opened it. 

"Good day, Emperor," he said. "Could I get 
work at the Palace?" 

"Well, there are so many wanting places," said 
the Emperor; "but let me see! — I need a Swine- 
herd. I have a good many pigs to keep." 

So the Prince was made Imperial Swineherd. He 
had a wretched little room near the pig-sty and 
here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day he 
sat and worked, and by the evening he had made 
a neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, 
'and as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell 
to jingling most sweetly and played the old melody: 

"Ach du lieber Augustin, 
Alles ist weg, weg, weg I" ^ 



^Alas! dear Augustin, 
All is lost, lost, lost! 

^Z7 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

But the most wonderful thing was that when you 
held your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you 
could immediately smell what dinner was cooking 
on every hearth in the town. That was something 
very different from a rose. 

The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in- 
waiting, and when she heard the melody, she 
stopped short, and looked pleased, for she could 
play "Ach du lieber Augustin" herself; it was the 
only tune she knew, and that she played with one 
finger. "Why, that is the tune I play," she said, 
"What a cultivated Swineherd he must be. Go 
down and ask him how much his instrument costs." 

So one of the ladies-in-waiting was obliged to go 
down, but she put on pattens first. 

"How much do you want for your pipkin?" asked 
the Lady-in-waiting. 

"I will have ten kisses from the Princess," said 
the Swineherd. 

"Good gracious!" said the Lady-in-waiting. 

"I will not take less," said the Swineherd. 

"Well, what did he say?" asked the Princess. 

"I really cannot tell you," said the Lady-in-wait- 
ing. "It is too dreadful." 

"Then you must whisper it," said the Princess. 

So she whispered it. 

"He is very rude," said the Princess, and she 
walked away. But she had gone only a few steps 
when the bells sounded so sweetly : 

238 



THE SWINEHERD 

"Ach du lieber Augustin, 
Alles ist weg, weg, weg!" 

"Listen," said the Princess, "ask him whether 
he will have his kisses from my Ladies-in-waiting." 

"No, thank you," said the Swineherd. "I will 
have ten kisses from the Princess, or, I will keep 
my pipkin." 

"How tiresome!" said the Princess; "but you 
must stand round me, so that nobody shall see." 

So the ladies-in-waiting stood round her, and they 
spread out their skirts. The Swineherd got the 
kisses, and she got the pipkin. 

How delighted she was. All the evening, and 
the whole of the next day, that pot was made to 
boil. And you might have known what everybody 
was cooking on every hearth in the town, from the 
Chamberlain's to the shoemaker's. The court ladies 
danced and clapped their hands. 

"We know who is to have fruit-soup and pan- 
cakes, and we know who is going to have porridge, 
and cutlets. How very interesting it is!" 

"Most interesting, indeed," said the first Lady-of- 
Honor. 

"Yes, but hold your tongues, for I am the Em- 
peror's daughter." 

"Of course we will," they cried in one breath. 

The Swineherd, or the Prince, nobody knew that 
he was not a real Swineherd, did not let the day 
pass without doing something, and he made a rattle 

239 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

which could play all the waltzes, and the polkas 
and the hop-dances which had been known since 
the creation of the world. 

"But this is superhe!" said the Princess, who was 
just passing: "I have never heard more beautiful 
composition. Go and ask him what the instru- 
ment costs. But I will give no more kisses." 

"He insists on a hundred kisses from the Prin- 
cess," said the ladies-in-waiting who had been down 
to ask. 

"I think he must be quite mad," said the Prin- 
cess, and she walked away. But when she had 
taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: 
"One must encourage the fine arts, and I am the 
Emperor's daughter. Tell him he may have ten 
kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my 
ladies-in-waiting." 

"Yes, but we object to that," said the ladies-in- 
waiting. 

"That is nonsense," said the Princess. "H I can 
kiss him, surely you can do the same. Go down at 
once. Don't I give you board and wages ?" 

So the ladies-in-waiting were obliged to go down 
to the Swineherd again. 

"A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each 
keeps his own." 

"Stand round me," she said. And all the ladies- 
in-waiting stood round her, and the Swineherd be- 
gan to kiss her. 

240 



THE SWINEHERD 

"What can all that crowd be down by the pig- 
sty?" said the Emperor, stepping out onto the bal- 
cony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. 
"It is the court ladies up to some of their tricks. I 
must go down and look after them." He pulled up 
his slippers, for they were shoes which he had 
trodden down at the heel. 

Gracious goodness, how he hurried ! As soon as 
he came into the garden, he walked very softly, and 
the ladies-in-waiting had so much to do counting 
the kisses, so that everything could be done fairly, 
and that the Swineherd should get neither too 
many nor too few, that they never noticed the Em- 
peror at all. He stood on tip-toe. 

"What is this all about?" he said, when he saw 
the kissing that was going on, and he hit them on 
the head with his slipper, just as the Swineherd was 
getting the eighty-sixth kiss. "Heraus !" said the 
Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess 
and the Swineherd were turned out of his King- 
dom. 

The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and 
the rain streamed down. 

"Oh ! wretched creature that I am," said the Prin- 
cess. "If I had only taken the handsome Prince ! 
Oh, how unhappy I am!" 

Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed 
the black and brown ofif his face, threw off his 
ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal apparel, 

241 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

looking so handsome that she was obHged to curtsey. 

"I have learned to despise you," he said. "You 
would not have an honorable Prince. You could 
not appreciate a rose or a nightingale, but for a 
musical toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you 
have your reward." 

So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and 
bolted it, and she had to stand outside singing: 

"Ach du lieber Augustin, 
Alles ist weg, weg, weg"! 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

In China, you must know, the Emperor is a 
Chinaman, and all those around him are Chinamen, 
too. It is many years since all this happened, and 
for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it 
is forgotten. 

The Emperor's palace was the most beautiful in 
the world; built all of fine porcelain and very costly, 
but so fragile that it was very difficult to touch, 
and you had to be very careful in doing so. The 
most wonderful flowers were to be seen in the 
garden, and to the most beautiful, silver bells, tin- 
kling bells were tied, for fear people should pass 
by without noticing them. How well everything 
had been thought out in the Emperor's garden ! 
This was so big, that the gardener himself did not 
know where it ended. If you walked on and on 
you came to the most beautiful forest, with tall 
trees and big lakes. The wood stretched right 
down to the sea which was blue and deep; great 
ships could pass underneath the branches, and here 
a nightingale had made its home, and its singing 
• 243 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

was so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though 
he had so many other things to do, would lie still 
and listen when he was out at night drawing in 
his nets. 

"How beautiful it is!" he said; but then he was 
forced to think about his own affairs, and the Night- 
ingale was forgotten. The next day, when it sang 
again, the fisherman said the same thing: "How 
beautiful it is!" 

Travellers from all the countries of the world 
came to the Emperor's town, and expressed their 
admiration of the palace and the garden, but when 
they heard the Nightingale, they all said : "This is 
the best of all !" 

Now, when these travellers came home, they told 
of what they had seen. And scholars wrote many 
books about the town, the palace and the garden, 
but nobody left out the Nightingale; it was always 
spoken of as the most wonderful of all they had 
seen. And those who had the gift of the Poet, 
wrote the most delightful poems all about the Night- 
ingale in the wood near the deep lake. 

The books went round the world, and in the 
course of time some of them reached the Emperor. 
He sat in his golden chair, and read and read, nod- 
ding his head every minute ; for it pleased him to 
read the beautiful descriptions of the town, the pal- 
ace and the garden. 

"But the Nightingale is the best of all," he read. 
244 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

"What is this?" said the Emperor. "The Night- 
ingale! I know nothing whatever about it. To 
think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom — 
nay in my very garden — and I have never heard it. 
And to think one should learn such a thing for the 
first time from a book !" 

Then he summoned his Lord-in- Waiting, who 
was such a grand personage that if anyone inferior 
in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him about 
anything, he merely answered "P," which meant 
nothing whatever. 

"There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called 
the Nightingale," said the Emperor; "they say it is 
the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I 
been told nothing about it?" 

"I have never heard it mentioned before," said 
the Lord-in- Waiting. "It has certainly never been 
presented at court." 

"It is my good pleasure that it shall appear to- 
night and sing before me !" said the Emperor. "The 
whole world knows what is mine, and I myself do 
not know it." 

"I have never heard it mentioned before," said 
the Lord-in- Waiting. "I will seek it, and I shall 
find it." 

But where was it to be found? The Lord-in- 
Waiting ran up and down all the stairs, through the 
halls and passages, but not one of all those whom 
he met had ever heard a word about the Nightin- 

245 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

gale; so the Lord-in- Waiting ran back to the Em- 
peror and told him that it must certainly be a fable 
invented by writers of books. 

"Your Majesty must not believe all that is writ- 
ten in books. It is pure invention, something which 
is called the Black Art." 

"But," said the Emperor, "the book in which I 
have read this was sent to me by His Majesty, the 
Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a 
falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale. It must 
appear this evening ! It has my Imperial favor, and 
if it fails to appear the Court shall be trampled upon 
after the Court has supped." 

"Tsing-pe!" said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again 
he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the 
halls and passages, and half the Court ran with him, 
for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And 
many questions were asked about the wonderful 
Nightingale, of whom all had heard except those 
who lived at Court, 

At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. 
She said: "Oh, yes! The Nightingale! I know 
it well. How it can sing! Every evening I have 
permission to take the broken pieces from the table 
to my poor sick mother who lives near the sea- 
shore, and on my way back, when I feel tired, and 
rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightin- 
gale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears; it is 
as if my mother kissed me." 
246 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

"Little kitchen-maid," said the Lord-in- Waiting, 
"I will get a permanent place for you in the Court 
Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if 
you can lead us to the Nightingale ; for it has been 
commanded to appear at Court to-night." 

So they started off all together where the bird 
used to sing; half the Court went, too. They were 
going along at a good pace, when suddenly they 
heard a cow lowing. 

"Oh," said a Court-Page. "There it is! What 
wonderful power for so small a creature! I have 
certainly heard it before." 

"No, those are the cows lowing," said the little 
kitchen-maid. "We are a long way from the place 
yet." 

Then the frogs began to croak in the marsh. 
"Glorious," said the Court-Preacher. "Now, I hear 
it — it is just like little church-bells." 

"No, those are the frogs," said the little kitchen- 
maid. "But now I think we shall soon hear it." 

And then the Nightingale began to sing. 

"There it is," said the little girl. "Listen, listen 
— there it sits!" And she pointed to a little gray 
bird in the branches. 

"Is it possible!" said the Lord-in- Waiting. "I 
had never supposed it would look like that. How 
very plain it looks ! It has certainly lost its color 
from seeing so many grand folk here." 

"Little Nightingale," called out the little kitchen- 
247 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

maid, "our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing 
for him." 

"With the greatest pleasure," said the Nightin- 
gale, and it sang, and it was a joy to hear it. 

"It sounds like little glass bells," said the Lord- 
in- Waiting; "and just look at its little throat, how 
it moves ! It is astonishing to think we have never 
heard it before! It will have a real succes at 
Court." 

"Shall I sing for the Emperor again?" asked 
the Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor 
was there in person. 

"Mine excellent little Nightingale," said the 
Lord-in- Waiting, "I have the great pleasure of bid- 
ding you to a Court-Festival this night, when you 
will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your de- 
lightful warbling." 

"My voice sounds better among the green trees," 
said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it 
knew that the Emperor wished it. 

There was a great deal of furbishing up at the 
palace. The walls and ceiling which were of por- 
celain, shone with the light of a thousand golden 
lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling 
kind were placed in the passages. There was a 
running to and fro and a great draught, but that is 
just what made the bells ring, and one could not 
hear oneself speak. In the middle of the great hall 
where the Emperor sat, a golden rod had been set 

248 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The 
whole Court was present, and the little kitchen-maid 
was allowed to stand behind the door, for she had 
now the actual title of Court Kitchen-Maid. All 
were there in their smartest clothes, and they all 
looked toward the little gray bird to which the Em- 
peror nodded. 

And then the Nightingale sang, so gloriously that 
tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled 
down his cheeks, and the Nightingale sang even 
more sweetly. The song went straight to the heart, 
and the Emperor was so delighted that he declared 
that the Nightingale should have his golden slipper 
to hang round its neck. But the Nightingale de- 
clined. It had already had its reward. 

"1 have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That is 
my greatest reward. An Emperor's tears have a won- 
derful power. God knows I am sufficiently reward- 
ed," and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard. 

"That is the most delightful coquetting I have 
ever known," said the ladies sitting round, and 
they took water into their mouths, in order to 
gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really 
thought they were like the Nightingale. Even the 
footmen and the chambermaids sent word that they 
were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for they 
are always the most difficult people to please. Yes, 
indeed, there was no doubt as to the Nightingale's 
success. It was to stay at Court, and have its own 

249 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, 
and once at night. Twelve footmen went out with 
it, and each held a silk ribbon which was tied to 
the bird's leg, and which they held very tightly. 
There was not much pleasure in an outing of that 
sort. The whole town was talking about the won- 
derful bird, and when two people met, one said : 

"Mghtin " and the other said "gale," and they 

sighed and understood one another. Eleven cheese- 
mongers' children were called after the bird, though 
none of them could sing a note. 

One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. 
Outside was written the word : "Nightingale." 

"Here we have a new book about our wonderful 
bird," said the Emperor. But it was not a book; 
it was a little work of art which lay in a box — an 
artificial Nightingale, which looked exactly like the 
real one, but it was studded all over with diamonds, 
rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, 
it could sing one of the songs which the real bird 
sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered 
with silver and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon 
on which was written: "The Emperor of Japan's 
Nightingale is poor indeed, compared with the Em- 
peror of China's." 

"That is delightful," they all said, and on the 
messenger who had brought the artificial bird, they 
bestowed the title of "Imperial Nightingale-Bringer- 
in-Chief." 

250 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

"Let them sing together, and what a duet that 
will be!" 

And so they had to sing, but the thing would 
not work, because the real Nightingale could only 
sing in its own way, and the artificial Nightingale 
went by clockwork. 

"That is not its fault," said the band-master. 
"Time is its strong point and it has quite my 
method." 

Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. 
It had just as much success as the real bird, and it 
was so much handsomer to look at ; it glittered like 
bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune 
three and thirty times, and still it was not tired; 
the people would willingly listen to the whole per- 
formance over again from the start, but the Em- 
peror suggested that the real Nightingale should 
sing for a while — where was it? Nobody had no- 
ticed it had flown out of the open window back to its 
green woods. 

"But what is the meaning of all this?" said the 
Emperor, All the courtiers railed at the Nightin- 
gale and said it was a most ungrateful creature. 

"We have the better of the two," they said, and 
the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this 
was the thirty-fourth time they had heard the same 
tune. But they did not know it properly even then, 
because it was so difficult, and the band-master 
praised the wonderful bird in the highest terms and 

251 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

even asserted that it was superior to the real bird, 
not only as regarded the outside, with the many 
lovely diamonds, but the inside as well. 

"You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all 
your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightin- 
gale, you can never predict what may happen, but 
with the artificial bird, everything is settled be- 
forehand; so it remains and it cannot be changed. 
One can account for it. One can rip it open, and 
show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylin- 
ders lie, how they work, and how one thing is 
the result of another." 

"That is just what we think," they all exclaimed, 
and the band-master received permission to exhibit 
the bird to the people on the following Sunday. 
The Emperor said they would hear it sing. They 
listened, and were as much delighted as if they had 
been drunk with tea, which is Chinese, you know, 
and they all said: "Oh!" and stuck their fore- 
fingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But 
the poor fisherman who had heard the real Night- 
ingale, said : "It sounds quite well, and a little like 
it, but there is something wanting, I do not know 
what." 

The real Nightingale was banished from the 
Kingdom. 

The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion 
close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it 
had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all 

252 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

round it, and it had been honored with the title 
of High-Imperial-Bed-Room-Singer — in the first 
rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor con- 
sidered that side the grander on which the heart is 
placed, and even an Emperor has his heart on the 
left side. 

The band-master wrote twenty-five volumes about 
the wonderful artificial bird. The book was very 
learned and very long, filled with the most difficult 
words in the Chinese language, and everybody said 
they had read and understood it, for otherwise they 
would have been considered stupid, and would have 
been trampled upon. 

And thus a whole year passed away. The Em- 
peror, the Court, and all the Chinamen knew every 
little gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just 
for this reason, they were all the better pleased 
with it. They could sing it themselves — which they 
did. 

The boys in the street sang "Zi-zi-zi," and "cluck, 
cluck," and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was 
certainly beautiful ! 

But one evening, while the bird was singing, and 
the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a 
whirring sound inside the bird, and something 
whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music 
stopped. 

The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the 
Court Physician, but what could he do? Then 

253 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk 
and examination, he patched the bird up, but he 
said it must be spared as much as possible, because 
the hammers were so worn out — ^and he could not 
put new ones in so that the music could be counted 
on. This was a great grief. The bird could only 
be allowed to sing once a year, and even that was 
risky, but on these occasions, the band-master would 
make a little speech, full of difficult words, saying 
the bird was just as good as ever — and that was 
true. 

Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had 
come to the country. The people all really cared 
for their Emperor, and now he was ill and it was 
said he could not live. A new Emperor had been 
chosen, and the people stood about the streets, 
and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their 
Emperor's condition. 

*'P!" he said, and shook his head. 

The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gor- 
geous bed; the whole Court believed that he was 
dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the 
new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss 
matters, and the chambermaids gave a great coffee- 
party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms 
and passages, so that not a footstep should be 
heard and it was all so very quiet. But the Em- 
peror was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in 
the sumptuous bed, with its long velvet curtains 

254 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

and heavy gold tassels; high above was an open 
window, and the moon shone in upon the Em- 
peror and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor 
could hardly breathe; he felt as if someone were 
sitting on his chest; he opened his eyes and saw 
that it was Death sitting on his chest, wearing his 
golden crown, holding in one hand his golden 
sword, and in the other his splendid banner. And 
from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces 
peered forth; some terrible to look on, others mild 
and friendly — these were the Emperor's good and 
bad deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death 
sat upon his heart. 

"Do you remember this?" whispered one after 
the other. "Do you remember that?" They told 
him so much that the sweat poured down his face. 

"I never knew that," said the Emperor. "Music ! 
music! Beat the great Chinese drum!" he called 
out, "so that I may not hear what they are say- 
ing!" 

But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, 
like a Chinaman, at everything they said. 

"Music, music," cried the Emperor. "You 
precious little golden bird! Sing to me, ah! sing 
to me ! I have given you gold and costly treasures. 
I have hung my golden slipper about your neck. 
Sing to me. Sing to me!" 

But the bird was silent; there was no one to 
wind him up, and therefore he could not sing. 

255 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Death went on, staring at the Emperor with his 
great hollow eyes, and it was terribly still. 

Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the 
sound of a lovely song. It was the little live Night- 
ingale perched on a branch outside. It had heard 
of its Emperor's need, and had therefore flown 
hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he 
sang, the faces became paler and the blood coursed 
more freely through the Emperor's vems. Even 
Death himself listened and said : "Go on, little 
Nightingale. Go on." 

"Yes, if you will give me the splendid sword. 
Yes, if you will give me the Imperial banner! 
Yes, if you will give me the Emperor's crown!" 

And Death gave back all these treasures for a 
song. And still the Nightingale sang on. He sang 
of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, 
where the elder flowers bloom, and where the grass 
is kept moist by the tears of those left behind, and 
there came to Death such a longing to see his 
garden, that he floated out of the window, like 
a cold white mist. 

"Thank you, thank you," said the Emperor. 
"You heavenly little bird, I know you well I I ban- 
ished you from the land, and you have charmed 
away the evil spirits from my bed and you have 
driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward 
you?" 

"You have rewarded me," said the Nightingale. 
256 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

"I brought tears to your eyes the first time I sang, 
and I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels 
which touched the heart of the singer; but sleep 
now, that you may wake fresh and strong. I will 
sing to you." Then it sang again, and the Em- 
peror fell into a sweet sleep. 

The sun shone in upon him through the window, 
when he woke the next morning feeling strong and 
well. None of his servants had come back, because 
they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale was 
still singing, 

"You will always stay with me," said the Em- 
peror. "You shall only sing when it pleases you, 
and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a 
thousand pieces." 

"Do not do that," said the Nightingale. "It has 
done the best it could. Keep it with you. I can- 
not build my nest in a palace, but let me come just 
as I please. I will sit on the branch near the win- 
dow, and sing to you that you may be both joyful 
and thoughtful. I will sing to you of the happy 
folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of the evil 
and of the good, which is being hidden from you. 
The little singing bird flies hither and thither, to 
the poor fisherman, to the peasant's hut, to many 
who live far from you and the Court. Your heart 
is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown 
has a breath of sanctity, too. I will come, I will 
sing to you ! But one thing you must promise me !" 

^^7 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

"All that you ask," said the Emperor, and stood 
there in his imperial robes which he had put on him- 
self, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart. 

"I beg you, let no one know that you have a little 
bird who tells you everything. It will be far better 
so!" 

Then the Nightingale flew away. 

The servants came to look upon their dead Em- 
peror, Yes, there they stood; and the Emperor 
said: "Good morning!" 



THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA 

There was once a Prince who wished to marry a 
Princess, but she must be a r^a/ Princess. He trav- 
elled all over the world to find one, but there was al- 
ways something wrong. There were plenty of Prin- 
cesses, but whether they were real or not he could 
not be sure. There was always something that was 
not quite right. So he came home again, feeling 
very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real Prin- 
cess. 

One evening there was a terrible storm ; it light- 
ened and thundered, and the rain came down in tor- 
rents; it was a fearful night. In the midst of the 
storm there came a knocking at the town-gate, and 
the old King himself went down to open it. There, 
outside, stood a Princess. But what a state she was 
in from the rain and the storm! The water was 
running out of her hair on to her clothes, into her 
shoes and out at the heels ; and yet she said she was 
a real Princess. 

"We shall soon find out about that," thought 
the old Queen. But she said never a word. She 
went into the bedroom, took off all the bedclothes 
and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took 

259 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea and 
twenty eider-down quilts on the mattresses. And 
the Princess was to sleep on the top of all. 

In the morning they came to her and asked her 
how she had slept. 

"Oh ! wretchedly," said the Princess. "I scarcely 
closed my eyes the whole night long. Heaven 
knows what could have been in the bed! I have 
lain upon something hard, so that my whole body 
is black and blue. It is quite dreadful." 

They could see now that she was a real Princess, 
because she had felt the pea through twenty mat- 
tresses and twenty eider-down quilts. Nobody but 
a real Princess could be so sensitive. 

So the Prince married her, for now he knev; that 
he had found a real Princess, and the pea was sent 
to an Art Museum, where it can still be seen, if 
nobody has taken it away. 

Now, mark you : This is a true story. 



PART III 

LIST OF STORIES 

BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY- 
TELLER AND BOOKS REFERRED TO IN 
THE LIST OF STORIES 



I had intended, in this section, to offer an appen- 
dix of titles of stories and books which should cover 
all the ground of possible narrative in schools; but 
I have found so many lists containing standard 
books and stories, that I have decided that this 
original plan would be a work of supererogation. 
What is really needed is a supplementary list to 
those already published — a specialized list which is 
the result of private research and personal experi- 
ence. I have for many years spent considerable 
time in the British Museum and some of the prin- 
cipal libraries in America. I now offer the fruit of 
my labor. 



LIST OF STORIES 

CLASSICAL STORIES 

The Story of Theseus. From Kingsley's "Heroes." 
How Theseus lifted the stone. 
How Theseus slew the Corynetes. 
How Theseus slew Sinis. 
How Theseus slew Kerkyon and Procrustes. 
How Theseus slew the Medea and was acknowledged 

the son of JEgeus. 
How Theseus slew the Minotaur. 

To be told in six parts as a series. 

The Story of Crcesus. 

The Conspiracy of the Magi. 

Arion and the Dolphin. 

From "Wonder Tales from Herodotus," by N. Bar- 
rington D'Almeida. 

These stories are intended for reading, but could be short- 
ened for effective narration. 

Coriolanus. 
Julius C^sar. 
Aristides. 
Alexander, 

From "Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls," by W. 
H. Weston. 

These stories must be shortened and adapted for narra- 
tion. 

263 



THE ART OF THE sTORY-TELLER 

The God of the Spears: the Story of Romulus. 
His Father's Crown : the Story of Alcibiades. 

From "Tales from Plutarch," by F. J. Rowbotham. 

These stories may be shortened and told in sections. 

EAST INDIAN STORIES 

The Wise Old Shepherd. 
The Religious Camel. 

From "The Talking Thrush," by W. H. D. Rouse. 

Less Inequality Than Men Deem. 

From "Old Deccan Days," by Mary Frere. 

The Brahman, the Tiger and the Six Judges. 

This story may be found in "The Fairy Ring," edited by 
Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith; also in 
"Tales of the Punjab," by F. A. Steel, under the title of 
"The Tiger, the Brahman and the Jackal." 

Tit for Tat. 

From "Old Deccan Days," by Mary Frere. 
This story may be found in "The Fairy Ring," edited by 
Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith. 

"Pride Goeth Before a Fall." 
Harisarman. 

From "Indian Fairy Tales," by Joseph Jacobs. 

The Bear's Bad Bargain. 
Little Anklebone. 
Peasie and Beansie. 

From "Tales of the Punjab," by F. A. Steel. 

The Weaver and the Watermelon. 
The Tiger and the Hare. 

From "Indian Nights Entertainment," by Synnerton. 
264 



LIST OF STORIES 

The Virtuous Animals. 

This story should be abridged for narration. 

The Ass as Singer. 

The Wolf and the Sheep. 

From "Tibetan Tales," by F. A. Schiefner. 

A Story About Robbers. 

From "Out of the East," by Lafcadio Hearn. 

Dripping. 

From "Indian Fairy Tales," by Mark Thornhill. 

The Buddha as Tree-Spirit. 
The Buddha as Parrot. 
The Buddha as King. 

From "A Collection of Eastern Stories and Legends," 
by M. L. Shedlock. 

Rakshas and Bakshas. 

This story may be found in "Tales of Laughter," ed- 
ited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald 
Smith, under the title of "The Blind Man, the Deaf 
Man and the Donkey." 

The Bread of Discontent. 

From "Legendary Lore of all Nations." 

A Germ Destroyer. 

Namgary Doola, 

A good story for boys, to be given in shortened form. 
From "The Kipling Reader," by Rudyard Kipling. 

A Stupid Boy. 

The Clever Jackal. 

One of the few stories wherein the Jackal shows skill 
combined with gratitude. 

From "Folk Tales of Kashmir," by J. H. Knowles. 
265 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Why the Fish Laughed. 

From "Folk Tales o£ Kashmir," by J. H. Knowles. 

MYTHS, LEGENDS AND FAIRY TALES 

How THE Herring Became King. 
Joe Moore's Story. 
The Mermaid of Gob Ny Ooyl. 
King Magnus Barefoot. 

From "Manx Tales," by Sophia Morrison. 

The Greedy Man. 

From "Contes Populaires Malgaches," by Gabriel 
Ferrand. 

Arbutus. 
Basil. 
Briony. 
Dandelion. 

From "Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruits, 
and Plants," by C. M. Skinner. 

The Magic Picture. 

The Stone Monkey. 

Stealing Peaches. 

The Country of Gentlemen. 

Football on a Lake. 

From "Chinese Fairy Tales," by H. A. Giles. 

The Lime Tree. 

Intelligence and Luck. » 

The Frost, the Sun and Wind. 

From "Sixty Folk Tales from Slavonic Sources," by 
0. H. Wratislaw. 

266 



LIST OF STORIES 

The Boy Who Slept. 
The Gods Know. 

From "Chinese Fairy Stories," by N. A. Pitnam. 

This story must be shortened and adapted for narration. 

The Imp Tree. 

The Pixy Flower. 

Tom Tit Tot. 

The Princess of Colchester. 

From "Fairy Gold," by Ernest Rhys. 

The Origin of the Mole. 

From "Cossack Fairy Tales," by R. N. Bain. 

Dolls and Butterflies. 

From "Myths and Legends of Japan," by F. H. Davis. 

The Child of the Forest. 
The Sparrow's Wedding. 
The Moon Maiden. 

From "Old World Japan," by Frank Rinder. 

The Story of Merlin. 

From "Stories of Early British Heroes," by C. G. 
Hartley. 

The Isle of the Mystic Lake. 

From "The Voyage of Maildun," in "Old Celtic Ro- 
mances," by P. W. Joyce. 

The Story of Baldur. 

From "Heroes of Asgard," by M. R. Earle. 
In three parts for young children. 

Adalhero. 

From "Evenings with the Old Story Tellers." 
267 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Martin the Peasant's Son. 

From "Russian Wonder Tales," by Post Wheeler. 
This is more suitable for reading. 

The Legend of Rip Van Winkle. 

From "Rip Van Winkle," by Washington Irving. 

Urashima. 

From "Myths and Legends of Japan," by F. H. Davis. 

The Monk and the Bird. 

From "The Book of Legends Told Over Again," by 
H. E. Scudder. 

Carob. 

From "Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, 
Fruits and Plants," by C. M. Skinner. 
A Talmud legend. 

The Land of Eternal Youth. 
From "Child-Lore." 

Catskin. 

Guy of Gisborne. 

King Henry and the Miller. 

From "A Book of Ballad Stories," by Mary Macleod. 

The Legend of the Black Prince. 
Why the Wolves no Longer Devour the Lambs on 
Christmas Night. 

From "Au Pays des Legendes," by Eugene Herpin. 

The Coyote and the Locust. 

The Coyote and the Ravens Who Raced Their Eyes. 
From "Zuni Folk Tales," by F. H. Gushing. 

The Peacemaker. 

From "Legends of the Iroquois," by W. V. Canfield. 
268 



LIST OF STORIES 

The Story of the Great Chief of the Animals. 
The Story of Lion and Little Jackal. 

From "Kaffir Folk Tales," by G. M. Theal. 

The Legend of the Great St. Nicholas. 
The. Three Counsels. 

From "Bulletin De Folk Lore, Liege." 

The Tale of the Peasant Demyar. 

The Monkey and the Pomegranate Tree. 

The Ant and the Snow. 

The Value of an Egg. 

The Padre and the Negro. 

Papranka. 

From "Tales of Old Lusitania," by Coelho. 

Kojata. 

The Lost Spear. (To be shortened.) 

The Hermit. (By Voltaire.) 

The Blue Cat. (From the French.) 

The Silver Penny. 

The Three Sisters. 

The Slippers of Abou-Karem. 

From "The Golden Fairy Book." 

The Fairy Baby. 

From "Uncle Remus in Hansaland," by Mary and 
Newman Tremearne. 

Why the Sole of a Man's Foot Is Uneven. 
The Wonderful Hair. 
The Emperor Trojan's Goat Ears. 
The Language of Animals. 
Handicraft Above Everything. 

269 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Just Earnings Are Never Lost. 
The Maiden Who Was Swifter Than a Horse. 
From "Servian Stories and Legends." 

Le Couple Silencieux. 
Le Mort Parlant. 
La Sotte Fiancee. 
Le C0RNA90N. 
Persin Au Pot. 

From "Contes Populaires du Pays Wallon," by Au- 
gust Gittee. 

The Rat and the Cat. 
The Two Thieves. 
The Two Rats. 
The Dog and the Rat. 

From "Contes Populaires Malgaches," by Gabriel 
Ferrand. 

RuA and Toka. 

From "The Maori Tales," by K. M. Clark. 

John and the Pig. 

From "Old Hungarian Tales," by Baroness Orczy 
and Montagu Marstow. 

This story is given for the same purpose as "A Long- 
Bow Story" from Andrew Lang's "Olive Fairy Book." 

Lady Clare. 
The Wolf-Child. 

From "Tales from the Land of Grapes and Nuts," 
by Charles Sellers. 

The Ungrateful Man. 
The Faithful Servant. (In part.) 

270 



LIST OF STORIES 

JOVINIAN^ THE PrOUD EmpEROR. 

The Knight and the King of Hungary. 
The Wicked Priest. 

The Emperor Conrad and the Count's Son. 
From the "Gesta Romanorum." 

Virgil, the Emperor and the Truffles. 

From "Unpublished Legends of Virgil," collected by 
C. G. Leland. 

Seeing That All Was Right. (A good story for boys.) 

La Fortuna. 

The Lanterns of the Stozzi Palace. 

From "Legends of Florence," by C. G. Leland. 

The Three Kingdoms. 

Yelena the Wise. 

Seven Simeons. 

Ivan, the Bird and the Wolf. 

The Pig, the Deer and the Steed. 

Waters of Youth. 

The Useless Wagoner. 

From "Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, West- 
ern Slavs and Magyars," by Jeremiah Curtin. 

These stories need shortening and adapting. 

The Comical History of the King and the Cobbler. 
This story should be shortened to add to the dramatic 
power. 

[From a Chap Book.] 

The Fisherman and His Wife. 

From "Fairy Tales," by Hans Christian Andersen. 
271 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Hereafter This. 

From "More English Fairy Tales," by Joseph Jacobs. 
This story and "The Fisherman and His Wife" are great 
favorites and could be told one after the other, one to illus- 
trate the patient wife, and the other the patient husband. 

How A Man Found His Wife in the Land of the 
Dead. 

This is a very dramatic and pagan story, to be used 
w^ith discretion. 

The Man Without Hands and Feet. 
The Cockerel. 

From "Papuan Fairy Tales," by Annie Ker. 

The Story of Sir Tristram and La Belle Iseult. 

From "Cornw^all's Wonderland," by Mabel Quiller- 
Couch. 

To be told in shortened form. 

The Cat That Went to the Doctor. 

The Wood Anemone. 

Sw^EETER Than Sugar. 

The Raspberry Caterpillar. 

From "Fairy Tales from Finland," by Zachris To- 
pelius. 

DiNEVAN^ the Emu. 

Goomble Gubbon, the Bustard. 

From "Australian Legendary Tales," by Mrs. K. L. 
Parker. 

The Tulip Bed. 

From "The English Fairy Book, by Ernest Rhys. 
I have been asked so often for this particular story I am. 
glad to be able to provide it in very poetical language. 
272 



s 



LIST OF STORIES 

STORIES FROM GRIMM AND ANDERSEN 

The Fisherman and His Wife. 

The Wolf and the Kids. 

The Adventures of Chanticleer and Partlet. 

The Old Man and His Grandson. 

Rumpelstiltskin. 

The Queen Bee. 

The Wolf and the Man. 

The Golden Goose. 

From Grimm's Fairy Tales, edited by Mrs. Edgar 
Lucas. 

Ole-Luk-Oie. Series of seven stories. 
What the Old Man Does Is Always Right. 
The Princess and the Pea. 

Thumbelina. For younger children. From Andersen's 
Fairy Tales. 

It^s Quite True. 
Five Out of One Pod. 
Great Glaus and Little Glaus. 
ACK the Dullard. 
The Buckwheat. 
The Fir-Tree. 
The Little Tin Soldier. 
The Nightingale. 
The Ugly Duckling. 
The Swineherd. 
The Sea Serpent. 
The Little Match Girl. 

273 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The Gardener and His Family. 

For older children. From Andersen's Fairy Tales. 

The two best editions of Hans Christian Andersen's 
fairy tales are the translation by Mrs. Edgar Lucas and the 
only complete English edition by W. A. and J. K. Craigie. 



STORIES FROM THE FAIRY BOOK SERIES 

edited by andrew lang. 

The Serpent's Gifts. 
Unlucky John. 

From "All Sorts of Stories Book," by Mrs. L. B. 
Lang. 

Makoma. 

From "The Orange Fairy Book." A story for boys. 

The Lady of Solace. 

How THE Ass Became a Man Again. 

Amys and Amile. 

The Burning of Njal. 

Ogier the Dane. 

From "The Red Romance Book." 

The Heart of a Donkey. 
The Wonderful Tune. 
A French Fuck. 
A Fish Story. 

From "The Lilac Fairy Book." 

East of the Sun and West of the Moon. 

As a preparation for Cupid and Psyche. From "The 
Blue Fairy Book." 
The Half Chick. 

274 



LIST OF STORIES 

The Story of Hok Lee and the Dwarfs. 
From "The Green Fairy Book." 

How to Find a True Friend. 

From "The Crimson Fairy Book." To be given in 
shorter form. 

A LoNG-Bow Story. 

From "The Olive Fairy Book." This story makes 
children learn to distinguish between falsehood and ro- 
mance. 

Kanny, the Kangaroo. 
The Story of Tom the Bear. 

From "The Animal Story Book." 

The Story of the Fisherman, 

Aladdin and the Lamp. This story should be divided 
and told in two sections. 

The Story of Ali Cogia. 

From "The Arabian Nights Entertainment," edited 
by Andrew Lang. 

STORIES ILLUSTRATING COMMON-SENSE RESOURCE- 
FULNESS AND HUMOR 

The Thief and the Cocoanut Tree. 

The Woman and the Lizard. 

Sada Sada. 

The Shop-Keeper and the Robber. 

The Reciter. 

Rich Man's Potsherd. 

The Singer and the Donkey. 

Child and Milk. 

275 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Rich Man Giving a Feast. 
King Solomon and the Mosquitoes. 
The King Who Promised to Look After Tennal Ra- 
NAN^s Family. 

ViKADAKAVI. 

Horse and Complainant. 

The Woman and the Stolen Fruit. 

From "An Indian Tale or Two," by William Swinton. 



STORIES DEALING WITH THE SUCCESS OF THE 
YOUNGEST CHILD 

This is sometimes due to a kind action shown to some 
humble person or to an animal. 

The Three Sons. 

From "The Kiltartan Wonder Book," by Lady 
Gregory. 

The Flying Ship. 

From "Russian Fairy Tales," by R. N. Bain. 

How Jesper Herded the Hares. 

From "The Violet Fairy Book," by Andrew Lang. 

Youth, Life and Death. 

From "Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, West- 
ern Slavs and Magyars," by Jeremiah Curtin. 

Jack the Dullard. 

From "Fairy Tales," by Hans Christian Andersen. 

The Enchanted Whistle. 

From "The Golden Fairy Book." 

The King's Three Sons. 

2^^ 



LIST OF STORIES 

Hunchback and Brothers. 

From "Legends of the French Provinces." 

The Little Humpbacked Horse. 

From "Russian Wonder Tales," by Post Wheeler. 
This story is more suitable for reading than telling. 

The Queen Bee. 

From Grimm's Fairy Tales, edited by Mrs. Edgar 
Lucas. 
The Wonderful Bird. 

From "Roumanian Fairy Tales," by J. M. Percival. 

STORIES FROM THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS 

The Story of Saint Brandon. Vol. 7, page 52. 
The Story of Saint Francis. Vol. 5, page 125. 
The Story of Santa Clara and the Roses. 
Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. Vol. 6, page 213. 
Saint Martin and the Cloak. Vol. 6, page 142. 
From the "Legenda Aurea." 

The Legend of Saint Marjory. 
From "Tales Facetiae." 

Melangell's Lambs. 

From "The Welsh Fairy Book," by W. J. Thomas. 

Our Lady's Tumbler. 

Twelfth Century Legend Done Out of Old French 
into English, by J. H. Wickstead. 

This story may be shortened and adapted without sacri- 
ficing too much of the beauty of the style. 

The Song of the Minister. 

From "A Child's Book of Saints," by William Canton. 
This should be shortened and somewhat simplified for 
narration, especially in the technical, ecclesiastical terms. 
2.TJ 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

The Story of Saint Kenelm, the Little King. 
The Story of King Alfred and Saint Cuthbert. 
The Story of Aedburg^ the Daughter of Edward. 
The Story of King Harold's Sickness and Recovery. 
From "Old English History for Children," by E. A. 
Freeman. 

I commend all those who tell these stories to read the 
comments made on them by K A, Freeman himself. 

MODERN STORIES 

The Summer Princess. 

From "The Enchanted Garden," by Mrs'. M. L. Moles- 
worth. 

This may be shortened and arranged for narration. 

Thomas and the Princess. 

From "Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls," by Helena 
M. Conrad. 

A fairy tale for grown-ups, for pure relaxation. 

The Truce of God. 

From "All-Fellows Seven Legends of Lower Re- 
demption," by Laurence Housman. 

The Selfish Giant. 

From "Fairy Tales," by Oscar Wilde. 

The Legend of the Tortoise. 

From "Windlestraw, Legends in Rhyme of Plants 
and Animals," by Pamela Glenconner. From the Pro- 
vencal. 

Fairy Grumblesnooks. 

A Bit of Laughter's Smile. 

From "Tales for Little People," Nos, 323 and 318, 
by Maud Symonds. 

278 



LIST OF STORIES 

The Fairy Who Judged Her Neighbors. 

From "The Little Wonder Box," in "Stories Told to 
a Child," by Jean Ingelow. 

Le Courage. 

L'ficoLE. 

Le Jour De Catherine. 

Jacqueline Ft Mirant. 

From "Nos Fnfants," by Anatole France. 

The Giant and the Jackstraw. 

From "The Book of Knight and Barbara," by David 
Starr Jordan. For very small children. 

The Musician. 

The Legend of the Christmas Rose. 

From "The Girl from the Marshcroft," by Selma 

Lagerlof. Both stories should be shortened and adapted 

for narration. 

I trust that the grouping of my stories in this section 
may not be misleading. Under "Myths, Legends and 
Fairy Tales" I have included many stories which contain 
valuable ethical teaching, deep philosophy and stimulating 
examples for conduct in life. I regret that I have been 
unable to find a good collection of stories from history 
for narrative purposes. I have made a careful and 
lengthy search, but the stories are all written from the 
reading point of view rather than the telling. 



BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY-TELLER 

AND BOOKS REFERRED TO IN THE 

LIST OF STORIES 

Andersen^ Hans Christian 

Fairy Tales; translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas. Dut- 
ton. Fairy Tales ; edited by W. A. and J. K. Craigie. 
Oxford University Press. 

Babbitt, E. C. 

Jataka Tales. Century. 

Bain, R. N. 

Cossack Fairy Tales. Burt. 
Russian Fairy Tales. Burt. 

Briant, Egbert 

History of English Balladry. Badger. 

Buddha. 

The Jataka; or Stories of the Buddha's Former 
Births; translated from the Pali by Various Hands. 
In Six Volumes. University Press. 

Buckley, E. F. 

Children of the Dawn. Stokes. 

Bulletin, of Folk Lore. Liege. 

Calthorpe, Dion C. 

King Peter. Duckworth. 

Canfield, W. W. 

The Legends of the Iroquois. Wessels. 
280 



BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY-TELLER 

Canton, William 

A Child's Book of Saints. Button. 
A Child's Book of Warriors. Dutton. 

Child Lore. Nimmo. 

Chodzko, a. E. B. 

Slav Fairy Tales; translated by E. J. Harding. Burt. 

Clark, K. M. 

Maori Tales. Nutt. 

COELHO, 

Tales of Old Lusitania. Swan Sonnenschein. 

Conrad, Joseph 

Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls. Hutchinson. 

Couch, Mabel Quiller- 

Cornwall's Wonderland. Dutton. 

CuRTiN, Jeremiah 

Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, Western 
Slavs and Magyars. Little. 

Cushing, F. H. 

Zuni Folk Tales. Putnam. 

Darton, E. J. H. 

Pilgrim Tales; from Tales of the Canterbury Pil- 
grims. Dodge. 
Wonder Book of Old Romance. Stokes. 

Dasent, Sir, G. W. 

Norse Fairy Tales. Putnam. 

Davids, T. W. Rhys 

Buddhist Birth Stories. Triibner. 

Davis, F. H. 

Myths and Legends of Japan. Crowell. 
281 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER " 

Earle, M. R. 

Heroes of Asgard. Macmillan. 
Evenings with the Old Story Tellers. Leavitt and 
Allen. 

EwALD, Carl 

The Queen Bee and Other Nature Tales; translated 
by C. C. Moore-Smith. Nelson. 

Ferrand, Gabriel ' 

Contes Populaires Malgaches. Leroux. 

FlELDE, AdELE , 

Chinese Nights' Entertainment. Putnam. 

France, Anatole 

Nos Enfants. Hachette. 

FreemaNj E. a. 

Old English History for Children. Button. 

Frere, Mary 

Old Deccan Days. Murray. 

Froissart 

Stories from Froissart; edited by Henry Newbolt. 
Macmillan. 

Gesta Romanorum. Swan Sonnenschein. 

Giles, H. A. 

Chinese Fairy Tales. Gowans. 

Gittee, August 

Contes Populaires du Pays Wallon. Vanderpooten. 

Glenconner, Lady (Pamela Tennant) 

Windlestraw, Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Ani- 
mals. Chiswick Press. 

Golden Fairy Book. Hutchinson. 

Gregory, Lady Augusta 

The Kiltartan Wonder Book. Button. 
282 



BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY-TELLER 

Grimm, J, L. K, and W. K, Grimm 

Fairy Tales; translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas. Lip- 
pincott. 

Harris, Joel Chandler 

Uncle Remus ; His Songs and His Sayings. Appleton. 

Hartley, C. G. 

Stories of Early British Heroes. Dent. 

Hearn, Lafcadio 

Out of the East. Houghton. 

Herodotus 

Wonder Stories from Herodotus; edited by N. Har- 
rington D' Almeida. Harper. 

Herpin, Eugene 

Au Pays Du Legendes. Calliere. 

HiGGINS, M. M, 

Stories from the History of Ceylon for Children. 
Capper. 

HousMAN, Laurence 

All-Fellows Seven Legends of Lower Redemption. 
Kegan Paul. 

Ingelow, Jean 

The Little Wonder Box. Griffeths, Farren and Com- 
pany. 
Stories Told to a Child. Little. 

Irving, Washington 

Rip Van Winkle. Macmillan. 

Jacobs, Joseph 

Indian Fairy Tales. Putnam. 

More English Fairy Tales. Putnam. 

Jordan, David Starr 

The Book of Knight and Barbara. Appleton. 
283 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Joyce, P. W. 

Old Celtic Romances. Longmans. 

Keary, Annie and Eliza 

Heroes of Asgard. Macmillan. 

Ker, Annie 

Papuan Fairy Tales. Macmillan. 

Ker, W. p. 

Epic and Romance. Macmillan. 
On the History of the Ballads from iioo to 1500. 
British Academy. 

Kingsley, Charles 

Heroes. Macmillan. 

Kipling, Rudyard 

The Jungle Book. Macmillan. 
The Kipling Reader. Appleton. 
The Second Jungle Book. Macmillan. 

Knowles, J. H. 

Folk Tales of Kashmir. Trubner. 

Lagerlof, Selma 

The Girl from the Marshcroft. Little. 

Lang, Andrew 

Arabian Nights' Entertainment. Longmans. 
The Animal Story Book. Longmans. 
The Blue Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Crimson Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Green Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Lilac Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Olive Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Orange Fairy Book. Longmans. 
The Red Romance Book. Longmans. 
The Violet Fairy Book. Longmans. 
284 



BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY-TELLER 

Lang, L. B. 

All Sorts of Stories Book. Longmans. 

Legenda Aurea. 

Legends of the French Provinces. 

Leland, C. G. 

Legends of Florence. Macmillan. 
Unpublished Legends of Virgil. Stock. 

Mackenzie 

Indian Myths and Legends. Gresham Publishing 
House. 

Macleod, Mary 

A Book of Ballad Stories. Stokes. 

Molesworth, Mrs. M. L. 

The Enchanted Garden. Unwin. 

MoNCRiEFF, A. H. Hope 

Classic Myths and Legends. Gresham Publishing 
House. 

Morrison, Sophia 

Manx Fairy Tales. Nutt. 

Naake, J. T. 

Slavonic Fairy Tales. King. 

Noble, M. E. and K. Coomaraswamy 

Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists. Holt. 

Orczy, Baroness and Montagu Barstow 
Old Hungarian Fairy Tales. Dean. 

Parker, Mrs. K. L. 

Australian Legendary Tales. Nutt. 

Pearse, W. G. 

The Children's Library of the Saints. Jackson. 
285 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Percival,, J. M. 

Roumanian Fairy Tales. Holt. 

Perrault, Charles 

Fairy Tales. Button. 

Pitman, N. H. 

Chinese Fairy Stories. Crowell. 

Plutarch 

Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls; retold by W. 

H. Weston. Stokes. 

Tales from Plutarch, by F. J. Rowbotham. Crowell. 

Ragozin, Z. a. 

Tales of the Heroic Ages; Frithjof, Viking of Nor- 
way, and Roland, Paladin of France. Putnam. 

Tales of the Heroic Ages; Siegfried, Hero of the 
North, and Beowulf, Hero of Anglo-Saxons. 
Putnam. 

Rattray, R. S. 

Hansa Folk Lore, Customs, Proverbs, etc. Clarendon 
Press. 

Rhys, Ernest 

The English Fairy Book. Stokes, 

Fairy Gold. Button. 

The Garden of Romance. Kegan Paul. . 

Rinder, Frank 

Old World Japan. Allen. 

Robinson, T. H. 

Tales and Talks from History. Caldwell. 

Rouse, W. H. B. 

The Talking Thrush. Button. 

ScHiEFNER, F. a. 

Tibetan Tales. Trubner. 
286 



BOOKS SUGGESTED TO THE STORY-TELLER 

SCUDDER^ H. E. 

The Book of Legends Told Over Again. Houghton. 

Sellers, Charles 

Tales from the Land of Grapes and Nuts. Field and 
Tuer. 

Servian Stories and Legends. 

Shedlock^ M. L. 

A Collection of Eastern Stories and Legends. Button. 

Skinner, C. M. 

Myths and Legends of Flovi^ers, Trees, Fruits and 
Plants. Lippincott. 

Smith, J. C. and G. Soutar 

Book of Ballads for Boys and Girls. Oxford Uni- 
versity Press. 

Steel, Mrs. F. A. 

Tales of the Punjab. Macmillan. 

Strickland, W. W. 

Northwest Slav Legends and Fairy Stories. Erben. 

SWINTON 

An Indian Tale or Two; Reprinted from Blackheath 
Local Guide. 

SwiNTON and CaTHCART. 

Legendary Lore of all Nations. Ivison, Taylor & 
Company. 

Synnerton, 

Indian Nights' Entertainment. Stock. 
Tales Faceti^. 

Tennant, Pamela (Lady Glenconner) 

The Children and the Pictures. Macmillan. 

Theal, G. M. 

Kaffir Folk Lore. Swan Sonnenschein. 
287 



THE ART OF THE STORY-TELLER 

Thomas^ W. J. 

The Welsh Fairy Book. Stokes. 

Thornhill^ Mark 

Indian Fairy Tales. Hatchard. 

TopELius, Zachris 

Fairy Tales from Finland. Unwin. 

Tremearne^ Mary and Newman 
Uncle Remus in Hansaland. 

Wheeler, Post 

Russian Wonder Tales. Century. 

WiCKSTEAD, J. H. 

Our Lady's Tumbler; Twelfth Century Legend Done 
. Out of Old French into English. Mosher. 

WiGGiN, Kate Douglas and Nora Archibald Smith 
The Fairy Ring. Doubleday, 
Tales of Laughter. Doubleday. 

Wilde, Oscar 

Fairy Tales. Putnam. 

Wilson, Richard 

The Indian Story Book. Macmillan. 

Wratislaw, a. H. 

Sixty Folk Tales from Exclusively Slavonic Sources. 
Stock. 



(1) 



